Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

D-16 came online to darkness, a splitting helmache, and an exorbitant amount of dust in his vents. According to his rebooting heads-up display, he was alive despite the mine's latest attempt to offline him. 

Hooray.

That’s another one in my favor and the mine is still at zero , he thought sardonically, Better luck next time.

His optics adjusted to the darkness, aided by the weak dim glow brought on by his biolights. The light revealed rocks pressing down around him on every side, giving D-16 only a couple inches to move around. The light mounted on his helm flickered back on. 

Illuminating even more rock.

This was not the first time that D-16 was caught in a cave-in. They were never pleasant, but he had long outgrown the phase where he would hyperventilate, optics sparking, hot fear coursing through his neck cabling, the air filled with the screeching of his plating grating against what would become his tomb. Instead, he slowly got to work unearthing himself from the wreck and ruin.

Several damage indicators popped up on his HUD as he moved a couple boulders off him into a semblance of a wall structure to avoid more of the tunnel crashing down. The pain indicators were automatically subdued to be dealt with later. An older miner had shown D-16 how to manually reorganize his priority trees, reducing pain to a tertiary-level data string between him and getting out alive.

When he had successfully unearthed himself and ensured the ceiling would stay put, he activated his TTE low-frequency comms. Due to being completely underground, regular comms were ineffective in communicating with the surface or his own unit, hence the low-frequency comms.

“D-16 checking in. Anyone come in? Over.” 

A slight crackle was his response.

“I repeat, this is D-16 checking in. Anyone come in? Over.”

Another crackle, this time disturbed by someone returning the comm.

“…bzzt…This is A-24…sorry…stupid rocks..bzzt…bzzt-copy or 10-4 or whatever the code is…”

D-16 breathed a sigh of relief. At least one mech in his unit was ok.

“What’s your status, A-24?”

“Non-critical yellow. Over.”

D-16 shifted, “Do you need assistance? I can make my way over if you give me your last known coordinates. Over.”

“Negative, D-16. Just…bzzt-the EAP-bzzt..  establish contact with surface-bzzt ... .the others should be ... .at the refuge bay….”

“Wilco. Over and out.” D-16 cut off the line.

Surveying his surroundings, D-16 spied the feeder tubes that ran along the tunnel's ceiling now crumpled on the floor. One was cracked open, revealing tracking transceiver tags, smashed to pieces. Each miner was fitted with a transmitter that let out a signal every 15 minutes. The feeder cable with the tracker tags would pick up the signal and send it to the rest of the network, so every miner was accounted for as far as upper management was concerned. But with this many tracker tags destroyed, a whole unit of miners had just disappeared from the active database. D-16 would not mind disappearing from the database. His plating itched at the thought of someone constantly tracking him. 

This could even be an opportunity to consider taking less than company-approved permanent leave…

With a shake of his helm, D-16 dismissed the thought.

What was he supposed to be doing? Right, reestablishing communication with the surface and trying to not die. Time to play “How many communication relay terminals does it take to contact the surface?” An old favorite.

Using what he could see of the minecart tracks inlaid in the ground as a guide, he began making his slow and careful way along the collapsed tunnel. Sweeping his light as he went to see if there were any wireless application-level gateway terminals or even redundant wired two-way terminals. There should be one posted every 50 klicks or so…

Ah, there.

An ALG wireless terminal set into the roughly hewn wall, protected by a still intact support beam, gleamed at him. D-16 could not help but smile a bit. He was in luck.

He went to the terminal and pressed the call button, “This is D-16 on level T-18 reporting a cave-in and requesting rescue. Do you hear me? Over.”

A response was not immediate, but the miner was not too concerned. The ALGs had to go through several communication layers before reaching the intended destination. If the cave-in caused by the recent tremor affected more than the mining level he was on, it would take even longer to receive a response as the servers tried to keep up with the influx of emergency status reports.

Several moments passed by, and the ALG stayed silent. 

Again, he pressed the call button, “I repeat, this is D-16 reporting from level T-18. We have sustained a cave-in and need rescue. Copy? Over.”

The ALG remained mute. D-16 worried for a second that he contributed to the influx and ensured he was not getting a response for a good hour or two.

If that was the case, he glanced around, then it wouldn’t hurt to take a closer look at the console.

Crouching down, he grasped the edge of the terminal and began to pull it out from where it was set in the wall. The ALG finally made a sound as it screeched along the rocky terrain until it was pulled far enough to expose its maintenance panel. Popping open the panel, he looked at the internals and readouts while muttering what he could remember of the last time an ALG was undergoing maintenance.

“Layer one is for input, but there are hidden layers as well,” he mused while checking status indicators by a faded internal system chart, “But the status is green, so it's still working despite the cave-in. Layers two and three are also clear. Hmmm, ah!… Dangit.” 

D-16 glared at the offending layer four, the transport layer, and the mocking red status indicator by its label. Every other layer was in working condition except for the most consequential layer. The previous layers collect and encrypt. The fourth layer is in charge of transporting that data to the surface. Which was oh so conveniently broken. D-16 could send all the distress signals in the world. No one would receive them.

In other words , D-16 thought as he banged his helm on the terminal in frustration, this is an exercise in futility.

Standing back up and abandoning the terminal, he continued down the tunnel. Stopping occasionally to carefully move debris out of the way. No need to cause a second cave-in out of haste.

And he was moving in slight haste, away from the ALG and the maintenance panel he was not supposed to know about. 

D-16 was not supposed to know a lot of things. Not the layer system that an ALG operates under. Nor was he supposed to know about the tracker tags, the 15-minute signal intervals, and the network they reported to. All that a low-class miner was deemed able to do was ‘push this button to talk.’ But D-16 had watched the maintenance crews in the shadows. Watched them argue, get upset at the consoles, joke, and explain things to new maintenance mechs whose knowledge packets had not yet been fully integrated. D-16 had watched, listened, learned, and waited.

Waited for what? D-16 was not ready to admit it to himself yet.

Access to forbidden knowledge aside, he would need to look for a wired two-way redundant communicator. If he could not establish contact with one, he would have to consider more desperate options for getting out before his fame went into stasis from lack of Energon.

Since the cave-in occurred while he was on a deeper level, it would take a while for any rescue team to find him…if they even bothered to send one after him. Depending on the severity of the cave-in, he might be in stasis by the time they come to collect his frame and bring him back to consciousness. 

If they bring him back to the land of the living. 

Will they bring me back online or smelt me, like what they do in Kaon?

With these troubled thoughts, D-16 continued his search. 

Several two-way terminals were posted along the tunnel, and others were kept in refuge bays. The miner's best bet was to find a refuge bay since, as one destroyed specimen attested as he stepped over it, the external two ways were more than likely crushed to dust.

Rounding a corner D-16’s light shone on what appeared to be a busted white trailer someone had offloaded and promptly left. Which, to be fair, was what happened.

Contained within the trailer-esque refuge bay would be a two-way wired redundant transmission console, tarps, emergency rations, and several other fittings for continued survival for another orn. Additionally, refuge bays were built to withstand rugged conditions. However, they were not impervious to gravity and megatons of pressure suddenly crashing down. 

D-16 wrenched the bay’s bent door open with a huff. He quickly regretted opening the door when he spied the broken casings of emergency energon rations and the exposed sparking wires hanging precariously above them. 

Energon was highly volatile. An exposed wire could easily make the substance detonate. If there were large amounts of Energon nearby, it would be enough to spark a chain reaction that would build up in force and take out half of the mine complex. Best to keep it contained in the bay and not risk blowing himself up.

He duly noted the compromised bay as something to report.

“The drink of gods and mortals, the prize for which a miner toils, yet its life-giving hue, is also destruction’s death bringing blue,” D-16 mused to himself. “Not bad, but the meter is all over the place.”

The refuge bay was spared more attempts at poetry as the miner carefully bypassed the active hazard and went to the two-way communication terminal.

He picked up the transceiver, whacking the side of the console for good measure like he had spied some techs do, and smartly hit the transmitter button. 

A slight crackle signals a working connection. 

Hope bloomed in his chest as an anxious breath caught in his vents. 

 “….bzzt…Huuuuhgk…bzzt-kzaaa….” Pained, labored breathing was all that came through from the other side, punctured with a sharp choke. 

The line gave one last crackle and went dead. 

Bewildered and his energon lines growing cold, D-16 moved the transceiver away from his audial receptor.

He tried to reactivate the call only to be greeted by the monotone “beep beep beep” of no connection.

He rushes to tap the button again, “Hello?! Are you ok? What is your position?” 

Nothing. 

Tap tap, 

“Hello?!” 

Tap tap.

 “This is D-16! Can you hear me?!” 

Nothing comes through the transceiver.

The miner let out a frustrated oath.

D-16 swore he had heard a mech’s final breaths crackling from the transmitter earlier. But all facts pointed to the communicator, like all others leading to this point, being broken. 

The communicator is slammed back in its case. 

Now it’s extra broken.  

A flash of red plating registered in the corner of his eye. 

D-16’s shoulders sagged in relief at the familiar color. 

All mining units had accent colors to denote what level they were assigned to work. The miners that work the dangerous red levels, T-13 through T-18, had red accents on their plating to indicate their station. D-16’s plating, under all of the dust and grime, had accents of red to go along with the required black and yellow safety decals. 

“Finally dig yourself out, A-24? Only took you a hundred vorns…” He trailed off, glancing to the side. 

There was no one in the bay except for D-16.

D-16 quickly left the refuge bay.

The second refuge bay he found was less of an active danger zone.

Opening the door, he tentatively looked inside to check for sparking wires and leaking Energon.

No broken cubes in sight, and the wires were still in place. Perfect.

D-16 looks towards where the terminal is stationed and jolts back at the sight of a red-plated mech standing by it, with his back to the miner.

“When did you get here?” D-16 asked.

D-16 thought the bay was empty. It was empty when he came in. 

The mech refuses to answer beyond heaving a choked breath before the bay’s emergency lights flicker and shut off.

D-16 winced as the bay plunged into darkness, closing his optics for a brief second. His helm light went off as well.

The lights shudder back on with a faint hum.

It’s just D-16 again in the bay.

He promptly nopes out of there.

He’s heard enough spark-ghost stories from his unit and the occasional black-level miner to know that when you see mechs that may or may not be there you leave.

There is no more debris to move out of his way as he hurries to the last refuge bay in this tunnel section. There are still boulders, collapsed supports, and mini sludge-slides of Energon mixed with mud oozing closely to downed wires and feeders to evade, but nothing major to make him stop.

If this last refuge bay follows the trend of being dysfunctional, D-16 will need to resort to even more drastic measures. Namely, following the tunnel down to the shaft that connects this level to the surface, where miners deposit the mined raw materials on a lift. And hey, D-16 alone did not exceed the maximum load weight. If the lift is working, he could hitch a ride. On the other hand, if the lift was not working, which he was certain was the case, he could climb up to another level and try his luck there.

The third refuge bay comes into view, silent in its white visage. 

D-16 tentatively looked in, armed with a crowbar that he had found discarded nearby. He had lost his drills in the tunnel collapse following the tremors. Will the crowbar have much effect on spark ghosts? Maybe not, but it was helping him feel calmer about the situation.

With the makeshift weapon in hand, he checks the Energon cubes.

No leaks. No mech.

He looks at the communication terminal.

Looks intact. No mech.

He does a complete 360 turn of the room.

No mech.

D-16 makes a beeline to the terminal. He picks up the transmitter piece and hits the call button. The transmitter gives a familiar crackle before letting out a dial-up tone.

D-16 sagged with relief. The connection was established and steady. Now he just needed to wait for the other side of the line to be picked up.

“Hgraaakh….you…,” a choked breath sounded behind D-16, freezing the energon in the miner’s lines.

D-16 whipped around, brandishing the crowbar with both servos, abandoning the transmitter.

He nearly drops the crowbar in horror.

Standing before him was the red-plated mech he had seen earlier. The mech loomed over D-16, casting a shadow that engulfed the miner. The specter’s optics blazed white hot cerulean. The dual light cast ghastly shadows on the rest of the mech’s frame, most notably on the grizzled hole of his chest plates. 

Layers of plating torn asunder and crumpled, shards of glass barely hanging on to a shattered window frame, with the claw marks of whoever had forced the plates asunder and inflicted the mortal wound etched into the ragged chasms. A mysterious pink fluid dripped from the chest plates, carving streams down the specter’s battered frame to pool on the ground. Within the chasm, in the deepest recesses, faint sparks went off where the mech’s spark should have pulsed with a bright blue light. Instead, there was only a dark pit.

“Wh-who are you?” D-16 asked. Clenching his servos around the piece of metal to make them stop shaking. “Who did this to you? Do you need help?”

The spark ghost tilted his helm and gazed at his victim with unseeing optics.

“Don’t you remember?” The spark ghost gurgled out, more of that strange pink fluid seeping out behind a cracked battle mask.

The specter took a bloody breath. The emergency lights shuddered with each rattle of the mech’s vents.

“You killed me.”

Chapter Text

“Have you ever thought about getting one of those tac nets?” a junior enforcer asked his colleague.

“Mmm, occasionally,” the other Praxian shrugged, shuffling through some datapads on his desk. “Never seemed worth it because of how much strain it puts on the processor.”

The junior enforcer jumped at the opening, apparently the true aim of starting this conversation, as he rushed to whisper conspiratorially, “I know, right! Did you hear about that guy in the security sector in Iacon?! Red Light or something?”

The senior enforcer gave a slow nod. The older mech was reluctant to encourage the conversation, cautiously glancing to the side. But even he could not resist talking about the latest news that had come out of Iacon. Praxus was allied with Iacon, but that did not stop the citizens of Praxus from gleefully trash-talking the northern city-state.

“I believe his designation was Red Alert,” the senior officer leaned in.

“Yeah, that guy. He had a tac net. I don’t remember them reporting if it was a late integration mod or if he onlined with it. BUT! He went rogue, right? It’s been only a few orns, but they can’t find any hint of him!”

“It’s pretty tragic,” the senior enforcer nodded, “Apparently, he was one of Iacon’s best. Was on the fast track to being security director even.”

“They said his tac net was one of the most powerful they have ever seen, and that’s why he was stationed in Iacon in the first place. His tactical recruitment scores were crazy! 108th percentile or something nuts like that. Obviously, he went off the deep end, but imagine having one of those tac nets.”

“It would certainly improve your end of vorn performance report.”

“Hey!”

“Skynet! Lynx!”

“Yes, sir!” the two mechs, Skynet and Lynx, stood at attention as Prowl drew near to their joint desks. 

“Two detainees are being processed for release. I need you two to organize their incident reports before the end of orn. Understood?” Prowl ordered.

“Yes, sir,” the two mechs looked anywhere but at the other Praxian.

If Prowl placed the container of files on the desk more harshly than necessary by the already towering stacks of datapads with vindictive glee, that was between him and Primus.

“We’re never going to get to patrol at this rate,” the junior enforcer, Skynet, grumbled as Prowl walked towards his office.

“What? Don’t fancy being a datapad cop because you keep talking about you know what, with Prowl around?” Lynx carefully pulled a datapad from the tower of files.

Prowl heard a dull crash and alarmed shouts behind him as he closed his office door.

He sat down at his datapad buried desk and let out a deep ex-vent.

“Y’know, as yer conscience, I think those two deserve a solid punch to the face,” Prowl’s 'conscience' cheerfully suggested with a crooked grin from where the mech peered out of the half-shuttered windows.

Prowl rubbed at his faceplates, How could I have forgotten the glitch?

Because that is what Prowl’s ‘conscience’ was: a glitch. A hallucinatory manifestation created by the overuse of Prowl’s advanced tactical network. Nothing short of that could explain why Prowl saw the mech when no one else could, as evidenced by an enforcer passing by the window, escorting a disgruntled detainee in cuffs. Neither so much as glanced at the Polyhexian peering at them curiously with a shattered blue visor.

Why his processor chose a Polyhexian, evident in the dialect tags common to Polyhex’s southern districts peppering the mech’s glyphs, mystified Prowl. Especially one with fractures that spider-webbed out from a large crack in his visor and had thick war-grade armor plating scorched over with blaster fire. Perhaps he had seen the mech in a newsreel about a riot in Polyhex between the dichotomized northern and southern regions. Or maybe he had seen the mech during a televised match in the western city-state’s gladiatorial pits. 

The hallucination, thankfully, wasn’t a constant presence. Instead, it came and went at erratic intervals.

In the background of Prowl’s processor, his tac net calculated a timetable of the Praxian enforcer displaying additional symptoms common to bots with tac nets to follow the hallucinations: mood swings, self-isolation, paranoia-.

Prowl staunchly ignored his ‘conscience’ and tac net as he pulled out a datapad. He would have it noted for his end of vorn work evaluation that his overall efficiency had not decreased by so much as 5% (with an error margin of .025%) despite the tac net glitch’s best attempts to sabotage Prowl with “chilling out” and “fun” and “insurgency.”

Said glitch was currently humming a peppy pop tune while making his way to sit on top of Prowl’s desk. Prowl continued to ignore him as he filled out a form.

“What’s that one yer workin’ on, Prowler?” the Polyhexian asked, swinging his legs back and forth lazily, “Looks different from all those incident reports ya did yesterorn, and the orn before that and the…hey, do ya do anythin’ as an enforcer besides paperwork?”

Prowl’s frown tightened at the question. 

The mech leaned over to read the form, deftly dodging Prowl’s annoyed glare as the glitch read aloud, “…psyche eval request…experiencin’ a potential processor glitch that manifests as hallucinatin’ a mech…indication of a psychotic break due to tac net related…hey, that's me!” he broke off with a note of glee. He smiled at Prowl, “Aww, ya think I’m a processor glitch. Classic.”

Prowl strangled an annoyed huff before it could leave him, focusing on filling out the next section.

Risk Assessment. Current Status: check all that apply-

“I can see why ya’d think that,” the glitch nodded as he began to count off evidence, “Stress from workin’ in a corrupt system, yer lack of social life, crashes caused by an overclocked tac net. Yep, lines up. But Prowler, I already told ya what I am.”

“A pain in the aft,” Prowl finally bit out, recalculating his earlier assessment about the glitch not affecting his work efficiency. 

The glitch laughed, delighted to have pulled a response from Prowl.

“Pretty close, but not quite!” he chuckled. 

“Enlighten me,” Prowl replied dryly.

“I’m yer conscience, of course!”

Prowl’s left optic twitched.

Several chimes sounded from Prowl’s work terminal. Signaling that Prowl’s comm messages had increased from 3,457 unread messages to 3,462 unread messages.

Prowl’s left optic twitched again.

There was a knock at the door.

Prowl’s left optic-.

“I think ya should get that optic looked at,” the glitch murmured, leaning in to inspect said optic, “That can’t be healthy.”

“Enter!” Prowl bit out, glaring at the glitch. Daring the other mech to say another word about the Praxian’s health.

The glitch held his hands up in mock surrender as the door opened, revealing one of the enforcer precinct’s lieutenants: Barricade.

“Good Orn, Prowl,” Barricade greeted, walking towards Prowl’s buried desk. The stylized Praxian Enforcer decals on Barricade’s doorwings glinted in the fluorescent light.

“Hello, lieutenant,” Prowl replied while discreetly turning off the datapad containing the psych eval form and stashing it away. 

He folded his hands, elevated slightly above the desk. Prowl calmly rolled his door wings back. There was nothing off about him. This was standard procedure. Prowl was sure of it. He was so sure he refused to glance at the glitch on his desk. 

“How can I help you?” he asked very calmly and casually.

“Right to the chase, as always,” Barricade smiled. “I’m doing great by the way. Took a couple of daylight drunks into custody. Got to duplicate, replicate, and triplicate eight different forms that said the same thing twenty different ways. The best part of the job,” he finished with a drawl.

Unwillingly, Prowl’s mouth twitched into a smirk at the familiar sarcasm.

“Did you remember to fill out the Subspace Inventory Seizure Report, ‘Cade? It’s only the most riveting piece of literature in our recording system. I cry every time you sign off at the end of the form.”

Predictably, Barricade let out a dramatic groan as he cleared some datapads off a chair so that he could sit down, “Knew I forgot something! Let’s hope it doesn’t progress to an insurance sheet. I swear, those cyberhounds want us to do everything for them.” The lieutenant shuddered.

Prowl smiled. It was familiar: complaining about paperwork, making jokes about third-party actors, the pleasantries that rounded out Prowl’s peculiarities.

Talking to ‘Cade was pleasant.

But the lieutenant hadn’t been ‘Cade for a long time. 

“I can see you're busy, so I’ll make this quick,” Barricade leaned forward, “I need to see a General Occurrence Report for a mech named Blindside, he was detained in the last circuit booster operation. He was running with the east Chargers gang.”

Prowl stilled at the request, ”The report is still being worked on. Why do you need it?”

Barricade shrugged, making the enforcer decals light up under the fluorescents, “Inquiring minds want to know. It’s the usual: insurance companies want to account for crime statistics, some politician wants to know how to administer to that population, the numbers people want to see if we’re meeting our quota, especially with these end of vorn evaluations being sent out, and the list goes on.”

“The data is incomplete. It hasn’t been submitted to the system yet. None of these third parties will gain accurate information in the report’s current state,” Prowl refuted.

Barricade kept smiling, undeterred, “Don’t worry, I can write up the details with information from the other officers at the scene. In fact, I see the report right there.”

Barricade snatched up the report as Prowl’s servo struck out, seizing the other end of the datapad.

“I said the report is incomplete, lieutenant ,” Prowl spoke through gritted dentae.

Barricade stood up, looming over Prowl as they both tightened their grip on the report, “I heard what you said, detective .”

The two Praxians stared each other down in steely silence, doorwings flared out. Barricade was four ranks above Prowl. The lieutenant could easily order his subordinate to stand down or write Prowl up for insubordination. For now, he used the implication of rank instead of invoking the precinct’s hierarchy forthright.

After another moment of drawn-out silence, Prowl stiffly let go of the report.

“Thanks, Prowl,” Barricade beamed, “Knew I could count on you.”

“Wait.” Prowl called as Barricade turned to leave, “What is the status of my end of vorn assessment and reinstatement application? Other enforcers have already received their evaluations.”

A contemplative look replaced the smile on Barricade’s face. The darker Praxian looked over Prowl with a solemn eye. The glitch moved slightly to place himself between Prowl and Barricade for whatever protection his subconscious thought an intangible hallucination would bring him.

“I can’t say much, Prowl,” Barricade said, “Just know that whatever happens, it wasn’t my decision.”

With that, Barricade left Prowl’s office.

The glitch scoffed, “What kind of dramatic line was that? Mech thinks he’s slick, but we both have him clocked. C’mon Prowl, let’s blow this depressin’ popsicle stand. We need action! Sunshine! Music!” 

Prowl didn’t know what a ‘popsicle’ was, but he understood what the glitch meant.

The detective looked at his buried desk. He turned his helm to look at the stack that Barricade had moved to the side. A few more comm chimes came from his work terminal.

He remembered a story about a Praxian lord from long ago. Back when Praxus extended down the Lithium Planes, bordering its sister city-state, Vos. Despite the vastness of his lands and wealth, the lord spent his orns shut up in his office working on treatise after treatise, complaint after complaint, and proclamation after proclamation. Eventually, he died in that office, not once seeing the land he ruled.

Prowl pulls out a victim report from a domestic violence case dated about a decaorn ago and gets back to work. There were deadlines to be met and reports to be made. He didn’t have time to go out on patrol and marvel at the sunlight refracting through the crystal spires of Praxus. If Prowl didn’t finish these reports in time or didn’t fill them out to code, they would be thrown out in court, or worse, the case would be abandoned.

But there were so many forms to fill out per incident, so much data to format, so little time.

“Five boxes. Five. Boxes . How did you lose five boxes of evidence for a high-profile murder?! With a closing rate of 90%, it is a statistical marvel for an enforcer of Praxus to be so incompetent as to-!”

“Alright, Prowl. Back down. I can take it from here,” Barricade interceded between Prowl and the enforcer that the detective was currently ripping into.

Prowl whirled around to glare at the darker Praxian.

“Lieutenant, this technician,” the detective sent a withering scowl at the mech who quaked under his ire, “has lost mission-critical information for an ongoing investigation into the murder of private investigator, Night Raid. I-”

“Will be backing down and letting this enforcer’s sergeant handle disciplinary actions. You will only file a report of the incident and update the case's lead enforcer. Stay in your lane, detective, ” Barricade interrupted with a steely look.

Prowl closed his mouth with a sharp click of his dentae.

Barricade was, frustratingly, not wrong. Prowl had been demoted from a tactical specialist who only answered to the head chief of all Praxus's Enforcers to a detective in the 212th precinct, one rank above an entry-level rookie. He was barely clinging to the privilege of having his own office.

Barricade’s expression eased a bit, “Thanks for putting the fear of Prowl into him, though. Always a fearsome sight to see.”

Prowl just gave a minute nod and stalked back to his office.

When he entered his office, Prowl went over to his desk and gripped the edge of it with a screech of metal. Crumpling loose flimsies in the process. His engine growled in a low pitch as he fought the frustration. His tac net automatically responded to the heightened emotions, calculating the data that Prowl fed it in his anger. 

That technician would never face any significant long-lasting consequences for mishandling valuable evidence, for denying any chance at consolation for the victim’s friends and associates. With the sheer volume of evidence missing, the case would be left unsolved.

The technician was an entry-level rookie with a generally clean record, a part of Prowl reasoned, fresh out of the academy with the shiny decals to match. It could be an honest mistake. A grave mistake, but a mistake nonetheless.

No, this is not anything innocent like that, Prowl snarled in his processor. He narrowed his optics as he tracked Barricade walking the technician to the lieutenant's office. In the past vorn alone, there has been an uptick in reports of ghost plate activity, at least a one-third increase from the previous vorn.

Ghost plates, also known as clean plates or corrupt assets, were mechs with clean records coached by crime syndicates to infiltrate the enforcers. This gave the crime syndicates access to information and resources. With those assets, gangs like the Chargers gained an edge over their competition. Leading to an increase in illicit profit margins, with violence never far behind.

Is the rookie a ghost plate, or is he being manipulated by one? Prowl’s expression darkened. One connected to a gang like the Chargers and high enough in the chain of command to make evidence disappear and use the rookie as a patsy? There is one way to be sure…

“I wouldn’t do that,” the glitch murmured beside Prowl, “Unless yer thinkin’ of flippin’ the table. Then I actively encourage it.”

Prowl didn’t answer, too busy racing through the possible routes Barricade and the technician might take from the precinct and comparing them to known gang-related fronts and meeting places.

“Mech, if ya go after those two right now, yer goin’ ta die, ” the Polyhexian spoke again with uncharacteristic seriousness. “Listen ta me: Ya got no backup. At least one of every three enforcers here is in someone’s pocket, by choice or force.” 

“Letting corrupt enforcers go free would be immoral for a conscience to endorse,” Prowl side-eyed the glitch.

“Well, yeah, it’s wrong. I’m not denyin’ that, mech. But that doesn’t mean ya should go about doin’ things that’ll get ya killed . Hang back fer now. Watch. Track where the shanix goes, y’know? If we can’t get them for this, we can always get them fer somethin’ else.”

“I have a misconduct report to write,” Prowl abruptly stated.

His conscience hummed in interest as the detective opened up his work terminal, fingers stabbing the glyph keys as he wrote the report. Prowl had more than enough experience writing up mechs. His cabinets were filled with write-ups. This write-up was more than the usual fanfare. He was going to make this a fraggin’ manifesto. The Praxian had worked himself up into an icy fury, his tac net furiously shifting through political connections within the enforcers the technician would reasonably have made at this point or that his criminal connections would afford the rookie.

Nothing that would save his aft this early in the infiltration , Prowl continued to stab at the glyph keys. His screen fills up with the ammunition of his noble ire and orns long frustration. He hasn’t been here long enough or made enough of a social connection to be nothing more than dead weight to the gang or to the precinct if he makes a severe enough misstep.

It was dark in the precinct, most mechs having gone home as the night squads rotated in, when Prowl finished writing his declaration of war: a simple misconduct report. Opening up an internal server comm message, the detective attached the report, addressed it to the technician’s commanding officer, wrote a quick explanation, and signed off.

However, that was not the end of his attack.

Prowl typed in a second address, the linchpin of this operation: CC: Officer Chase - Praxus Internal Affairs Bureau.

The Polyhexian let out an appreciative whistle, “Vindictive. I dig it.”

Prowl sent the message off and rose from his chair. Twisting around to crack his components that had grown stiff back into place. The detective left his office, heading towards the records department. Icy fury still simmering in his optics.

Within a couple orns of the report being sent, the technician was informed that he had been placed on a vorn-long probation for his misconduct in handling mission-critical evidence. A decaorn after that, he was summarily dismissed from the force for his failure to write incident reports that were up to code with the precinct’s guidelines. A minor infraction, but once an officer was placed on probation, any action that veered even a degree off and threatened to besmirch the image of the enforcers was enough grounds for the precinct to decide to sever ties. The ruthless and self-servicing nature of the enforcer complex as a political and social organization worked to Prowl’s advantage this time.

Prowl knew he was preening a bit as he watched the technician pack up his effects from his desk. Several other enforcers stood by to ensure the former enforcer was escorted out of the precinct without incident.

Prowl caught sight of Barricade in the corner of his optic. He turned towards the darker Praxian and tilted his head with a polite smile, arms folded behind his back in parade rest, door wings angled just so.

Your move, ‘Cade.

The lieutenant returned the look with a frown. Barricade closed his optics, sighed, and went into his office. Shaking his helm all the while.

Prowl should have known the slight victory would be short-lived.

He wasn’t a fool. Retaliation was to be expected. As the glitch said, 33.33% of the force was in someone’s pocket, and the crime syndicates were not to be taken lightly. 

However, he wasn’t expecting to be rammed off the road on his way back home the night cycle immediately following the technician’s dismissal.

Prowl hurled off the road in a tailspin. The impact crumpled one of his door wings and sent fire up his data cables. The Praxian quickly transformed into his root mode, the racing ground ripping up his pedes. He gritted his dentae, turned up his tac net's processing power, and subdued the wailing errors populating his HUD.  

The assailant had transformed into root mode as well. The other mech’s plating had been sprayed a dark navy and was equipped with a faux full mask and visor, obscuring any identifiable features.

“You should have worked a late shift,” the assailant quipped.

Filtering out the distraction, Prowl ducked down and twisted. Slamming his open palm in the faceplate of a second attacker who appeared behind him holding a pipe.

There was a sick crunch from the thin metal mask caving in on itself, and the assailant dropped.

It was a common tactic: distract the target with an immediate threat while a secondary operative struck from behind.

Did they bother to check my background ? Prowl wondered as he grabbed the pipe and rammed it into the solar plexus of a third attacker that had come around Prowl’s blindspot. Making the mech gasp as he also dropped to the ground by his injured companion

But Prowl had been a datapad cop for a while and had no backup.

Not even an annoying conscience.

A hot blunt pain exploded at the back of his helm, sending a sharp ringing through his audial receptors. He stumbled, and that was enough to turn the tide of the brawl. They subdued him and quickly dragged him into a nearby alley, where they proceeded to beat him senseless.

Prowl’s optics swam, and the scenery blurred around him as his helm was bashed under a battery of blows. He could barely see past the red warnings in his HUD. 

One of the goons wrenched back his crumpled door wing, and all Prowl could see after that was red .

Feebly, he tried to curl into himself for protection as the blows continued.

“This is just a warning, beatnik!” an attacker gruffed. Punctuating his threat with a swift kick to Prowl’s side, forcing out a sharp choke from the downed enforcer.

“Remember, you have a brother who would be sad to see you dead.” Another spat.

“Stay down, detective ,” A familiar voice snarled.

When the attackers felt that their message had been fully received, they filched out Prowl’s cuffs and snapped his wrists together behind his back.

“Stay safe! It’s dangerous after dark,” they mocked as they left.

Prowl’s frame was still as he laid on the hard ground. Through a haze, he watched blue energon drip from his damaged door wing.

His tac net, still keyed up from the assault and overwhelmed by the sheer volume of data fed to it, began to freeze up other processor functions.

The enforcers of Praxus have a 90% closing rate on all cases. Prowl knew that this attack would fall into the unsolved 10%. It was simple politics.

His processor crashed.

“Apologies for the delay. Had to clarify a couple details. Here’s your end of vorn evaluation and the response to your reinstatement application,” Barricade handed the datapad over to Prowl in the detective’s dark office. “If you have any objections, you can file a refutation. You're good at writing those.”

The detective looked at the datapad with a carefully blank face. He was still injured from the beatdown that occurred a fortnight ago. The medics had popped the dents out of his door wing and had replaced the ripped wires. A metal clamp held the doorwing in place while the systems finished reintegrating. Due to the new delicate and complex sensors still needing time to adjust to filtering the onslaught of raw data, the wing had a constant but minute tremble. 

He had also been concussed and was still feeling the effects of it. 

What. Joy .

“Just remember, Prowl, it wasn’t my decision,” Barricade turned and left the detective’s office.

A shaky servo turned on the datapad.

It took several attempts to read the glyphs:

Detective Prowl of the 212th Praxus Enforcer Core Precinct, after careful consideration of your reinstatement application and end of vorn review, the committee regrets to inform you that your request has been denied. 

We are, however, pleased to inform you that we see a great application of your skills in adjacent sectors of the force.

Please standby for a new assignment.

“ They are packing me out,” Prowl whispered.

Packing an officer out was similar to the tactic Prowl used to dismiss the technician. The precinct saw Prowl as dead weight and were severing ties. He had seen it happen to other enforcers who had lost favor with the department. Did not matter if they were upstanding or the dredges of society. Once they lost favor, they were given undesirable assignments and shut out of sight, out of memory. An unofficial exile.

“Mechs switched up the tempo on us, but if they want to dance, then let’s dance, ” the Polyhexian leaned forward on the chair he was straddling backward, facing Prowl. 

The glitch grinned wide enough to show his incisor dentae.

The Praxian did not answer. He stared at the ceiling, focusing on rhythmically inventing and exventing, like how his brother showed him.

“Oh yeah, ya don’t do well with adaptin’ on the fly. Sorry, Prowler, I forgot.” The Polyhexian shifted guiltily.

The glitch quieted down after that, giving Prowl time to collect himself.

With one last exvent, the enforcer lowered his helm and faced his conscience.

“What is done cannot be taken back, and I do not regret my course of action,” Prowl said with steel in his optics. 

He rested his chin on his folded servos. Smaller clamps and welds held several of his fingers together. Another reminder from his attackers.

“Right now, I am in an unfavorable position. I have lost political and social favor within the force. I was never a popular figure, and I don’t have the favors or strings in strategic enough places for an effective counter. Additionally, my demotion has expedited an inevitable reassignment. Not to mention my current rank as a detective makes it difficult to operate as freely as I’m used to. A lower rank reassignment will reduce my authority severely.”

“Yeah, yer low mech on the totem pole now. Ya need different friends, since yer current ones left ya high an’ dry.”

Prowl paused, confused by what a ‘totem pole’ was and how there was a hierarchy on such a construct before continuing, “An apt summary. Additionally, the gangs are threatened enough by my actions to attack me as a warning. As already noted, I have few allies. An estimated 33% of the precinct works in favor of third-party actors outside of the public good. That is still a sizable and influential minority to contend with. The self-serving nature of the department, although an asset at times, will work in their favor more than it will work in mine.”

The detective winced at a twinge from his bruised protoform as he readjusted his position, “The injuries I have sustained impose further restrictions on what moves are available to me. However, there are several courses I can pursue. I can push the offensive, putting my adversaries on the defensive. Making it difficult for them to counterattack, and I will end up in the obituary section in roughly a vorn. On the other servo, I can cease all actions, resign myself to my reassignment, and perish metaphorically. I do not care for either option. My most viable course of action is to…”

Here, Prowl faltered. His conscience leaned closer with a wide grin.

“Are ya suggestin’ what I think ya are?” the glitch asked gleefully.

Prowl let out a quick exvent, “…is to make a strategic retreat. This has the added bonus of putting my adversaries in a false sense of safety as they will see it as me backing down.”

“Yer takin’ a break!” The glitch whooped, “Finally! Sunshine! Music! Engex! Wait, yer injured. Disregard that last bit.”

The detective frowned, “A strategic retreat to reevaluate tactics and make plans to build up defenses alongside-“

“Yeah, yeah, yer takin’ a break. I hear ya, my mech, I hear ya. I’m pickin’ up what yer puttin’ down.”

Despite himself, Prowl gave a small smile at the glitch’s antics.

Strangely, that small smile sobered up the Polyhexian and the mech straightened up. Gone was the grin, replaced by a solemn expression.

“Hey, Prowler,” he started quietly, “I wanted ta’ apologize fer not watchin’ yer six. I can’t control when or fer how long I show up. But I’m sorry ya went through all that.”

“It is…alright. Apology accepted.”

Prowl felt he should be more concerned about how quickly he had warmed up to the glitch. It was just a hallucination caused by the deterioration of his processor due to the strain of his tac net. He was talking to himself. No one else was here.

Despite knowing this, he allowed himself to bask in the warmth of the concern shown for him just a bit.

He still needed to submit that psych eval request.

Chapter Text

“The mines are haunted,” D-16 said.

“That they are,” a black-level miner, Char, nodded in agreement.

“What?” A green-level miner asked.

“Greenies,” Char shook his helm, “They don’t understand.”

“They don’t understand,” D-16 echoed with a shake of his own helm,

The greenie gave them an annoyed look before walking away in a huff.

A red-level or black-level miner would seldom work with green-level crews. Greenies, as these crews were called, worked primarily on the surface: running communications, processing energon, and conducting maintenance on equipment. Since the tremors made certain areas temporarily inaccessible, there was an excess of miners unable to work their regular shifts. Thus, mechs like D-16 and Char were reassigned to a greenie unit that worked on constructing and running leach fields under the direction of a mining engineer.

Heap leach pads were one way to process energon and were simple to build: First, create a nonpermeable base. Second, stack crushed low-grade ore that contained energon traces on the base. Third, run perforated pipes over the crushed ore and pump an acidic solution onto the pile. The leaching solution then permeates the ore and picks up the target energon materials. Finally, the now energon-rich solution is caught by the layers at the bottom and channeled into pipes for collection. The solution will then be taken to a processing plant for further treatment.

The mine was determined to extract every drop of energon. There was talk among the engineers about going through old mining tailings to see if they could get traces of the coveted resource that older technology may have missed.

D-16 would not be part of those endeavors. Once the red levels were secured, he would be placed back where he started before the tremor occurred. Mining away in the dark. Dirt and metal holding a silent vigil. Waiting for the next tremor, tunnel collapse, or accident.

For now, he will enjoy the sunshine and fresh air on the surface.

Greenies could never understand.

Currently, D-16’s temporary unit is focused on constructing a new leach pad. They had finished digging the pit and putting the first proofing layer on. Now, they were lining it with dark plastic geomembrane sheets that came off a giant roller. All the red-level miner had to do was secure the sheets. 

This gave D-16 time to talk to the black-level miner as they walked behind the giant roller. The pair of miners occasionally stopped to secure the geomembrane while they talked.

“It’s rare to see a black-level miner above T-19.” D-16 observed, pulling the sheet tight as he pinned it down.

Char laughed as he did the same, “You're right about that. I came up for a routine maintenance check before the tremor hit. Lucky me, waiting for the wee-woo wagon can get boring.”

The black-level miner was far older and more experienced than D-16. His speech had a hard Tarnian slant and was filled with archaic glyphs. It was a pleasant accent to listen to, the younger miner decided.

“Are you concerned about your unit?”

“Mmm, they'll be ok, we’re not black-level for nothin',” Char continued to grin as they moved to the next section of the sheet. 

The grin took on a strained edge as the miner continued, “We got a new guy. Although, he’s not made for mining. He’s a 'special case'. I hope he’s doing alright. First time is always the worst.”

“I’m concerned about my unit as well,” D-16 confided. “So far, two mechs from my unit have been accounted for, but we’re missing five.” 

“I hear the repair crews stabilized T-14 through 16 today. We’ll know if there are more survivors in an orn or two.” 

“Yeah, it’s just...” the red-level miner trailed off before rushing the rest of his glyphs out, “I saw a spark ghost while I was trapped down there.”

Char gaped at the other mech with wide optics. After a moment of silent staring, a greenie down the line shouted at the two to hurry up.  

“A spark ghost? Are you sure?” Char murmured once they caught up with the rest of the unit to move to the next section of the pad.

“Yes. I tried to find out if he needed help, but he vanished.”

“What did he look like?”

“He had red and blue plating. His frame was badly damaged,” D-16 looked to the side, “I think he was a red miner like me who died in the collapse. He...he said I killed him.”

“Did you?”

“Of course not!” D-16 defended, nearly ripping the sheet as he yanked it in place.

“Then you didn’t. Simple as that.”

“What should I do then? He was in pain.”

Char smoothed the geomembrane, “Nothing.”

“Nothing? I can't do nothing. I lived, and he died . I can’t just let him haunt the mines for eternity. If I had been the one to perish, I would want help.”

The black miner's gaze softened, “Please understand I don’t say this to be cruel. You empathize with his plight. The energon spilled in the dark cries for justice. But none of us can give it to them. Can you give this mech his life back? Would you trade yours for his?”

“No, but I lived while he died. Can’t I do anything ?”

“The afterlife has rules we would be fools to think we understand.”

The two miners worked in silence after that cheerful bit of advice.

The repetitive, almost meditative, adjusting and securing of the geomembrane did little to soothe D-16’s inner turmoil as he mulled over the dour advice. His processor continued to loop over the relief and sorrow of D-16’s survival but at the cost of another mech’s life. Logically, he knew that this was an irrational thought. He did not cause the tremor. He was a lowly miner condemned to an existence of dark mines. 

Yet, he lived while the other mech died.

There is always give and take. Did my survival come at the cost of this mech’s life? Is that why he claimed I killed him? If I had died, would he have lived on in my stead? D-16 fretted.

“Hey, stop thinking so hard over there! I can see the smoke coming out of your audials.” A greenie joked as he passed by with a new roll of geomembrane sheets.

The red miner’s frown deepened.

“D-16, correct?” Char asked, “I need you to promise me something.”

“What is it?” D-16 asked cautiously.

Char’s amber optics were solemn, “Promise me you won’t seek out or invite this ghost. I understand how you feel, but promise me.”

The younger mech was silent as he gazed at the figure behind Char’s dark frame.

The spark ghost from T-18 loomed behind the black miner, silent. Unseeing bright optics pierced into D-16’s being. 

In the setting of Cybertron’s sun, the spark echo cast dark shadows that consumed Char. A pool of that strange pink liquid had collected in the gaping chasm in the mech’s chest. Drops fell from the specter onto the older mech, running in rivulets that cut through the black miner’s frame.

Char did not react to the presence. Made no indication he felt the breath of death. Merely waited for the other miner to promise.

“Ok,” D-16 started, “But let’s say for argument's sake that the ghost chooses to stalk me and is standing right behind you?”

“Then I say there is a great sale on rose quartz flowers. They will look lovely on your grave.”

“Thanks.” D-16 took his optics off the ghost to give Char a flat stare. When he glanced back, the fallen mech was gone.

They finished the rest of their work in silence. As they worked, the young miner would cast quick glances over his shoulder and go still when anything red flashed in his periphery. Eventually, they finished their sector of the pit without any more specter sightings, and the sun blinked away behind the distant mountains in a gorgeous array of oranges and pinks.

One of the few benefits of having a sky choked with dust and fumes was having stunning sunsets.

The setting of Cybertron’s sun signaled the end of the red miner’s shift. He bid his temporary unit farewell, and each of the miners went their separate ways as the night crew rolled in to take over proofing the pit. 

As the dark veil of night blanketed the sky, beacons turned on across the mine. The artificial light drowned out the stars and washed the landscape in bright white. Painting the way for the red-level miner’s trek home to his unit’s barracks. 

The barracks were in a lower part of the mine and consisted of rows of domiciles made out of ramshackle rock.

Transforming out of his alt mode, a mining tanker, he entered apartment four. Steel beams kept the abode's roof aloft while berths were packed into the tight confines. Personal items were stashed under the berths or haphazardly hung off the walls and beams. In a corner was an ancient energon dispenser dating back to the time of the Thirteen (or so A-24 claimed) that some miners had welded into rickety repair out of spite and sheer will. Energon still leaked out the back.

Grabbing a cube of energon, the red miner crashed on top of his berth with a content sigh. The berth returned a creaky groan in greeting.

Due to the surviving members of his unit currently being on shift, and, as a dented Cybertronian astrocalendaire reminded him, it being the weekend, apartment four was empty.

Not all mechs who lived in the barracks were ‘indentured servants’ like D-16 and the mechs who made up his unit, meaning those mechs could go home on the weekends.

D-16 and his unit had no other home but apartment four.

The mech shifted into a more comfortable position and began to sip away at his energon with shuttered optics. The blue fuel flowed down his intake, cooling his frame. When D-16 had first transferred to the Tarnian mine, the grit and strange tang of a miner’s provision of energon would make his faceplates scrunch up. Now, he drank it without complaint.

Downing the rest of the energon, D-16 leaned forward and rested his arms on his knee joints. He gazed around him, taking in the ghosts.

Not actual ghosts, mind you. Especially not ones like the specter of T-18. No, these ghosts were a different variety: designations of long-gone mechs scratched into walls and under berths, abandoned tools covered in a film of dust, and an assortment of rusting toy mechs craftily made from scrap metal.

Inscribed on the underside of the red miner’s berth was a collection of names crudely etched into the metal. Some names were already there when D-16 was given the berth. Others were ones he had carved himself. These fresher marks he counted out of morbid curiosity: DE-40, Impactor, J-4552, Tyger, Domino… D-16 had outlived fifteen different mechs who had been transferred into his unit throughout a single vorn. He barely remembered most of them. T-17 and T-18 would be cleared for operation in a couple orns. In a decaorn, they would reach T-24 and publish the full official report. Giving D-16 more names to etch and forget.

The miner began to whisper, “I was here / Now I’m gone / Here’s something to remember me on / my name is-”

The door to the hab suite was violently thrown open. The astrocalendaire on the wall crashed to the floor, and the apartment was spared from further mournful poetry.

Somewhere in the Well of Allsparks, the ghost of Impactor, who had been D-16’s sole audience for decaorns before he deactivated, let out a sigh of relief.

“That fraggin’ pitspawned manager!” A-24 thundered as he stormed inside. His servos strangled the stale air in front of him. “It’s a yellow wire! How the-,” here he let loose a slew of imaginative dark oaths and swears that left D-16 in awe, “did that glitched excuse of a mech miss it?! It shouldn’t be hard to see! It’s a slaggin’ sparkin’ yellow wire!” 

The older miner slammed the door to the apartment behind him on the warpath to his berth. The door fell off its rusting hinges, revealing an unimpressed femme, SK-37.

A-24 moved a loose metal panel and pulled out a fist full of shanix from within, chanting, “A couple more decaorns, just a couple more-“ as he counted.

“We were assigned to the repair crew. A-24 claims to have found a live wire in the production shaft. The manager doesn’t believe him.” SK-37 explains, stooping down to pick up the door. “The day we get a real door that slides shut instead of this archaic thing is gonna be great.”

“Speaking of great!” A voice piped up behind the femme, “Guess who is still alive: Me!”

A minibot bounced into the room with a grin. There were fresh welds and replaced shiny sections of metal trailing up and down the newcomer’s arms to accompany a black patch covering a shattered optic.

“RM-4, you’re alive!” D-16 greeted, getting up to give the mech a side hug, minding the injuries as best he could.

“The one and only, haha!” RM-4 gave a spin to show the entirety of the damaged but genuine article. “Medical added another metric ton to my production quota, sadly.” He gave a theatrical droop of his frame. His lower lip jutted out, and his servos nearly grazed the floor. He quickly bounced back up with another grin, “So, D-16, I heard from Air Lift in medical, who heard from Oil Slick in the chemical plant, who heard from a greenie working on the leach pads, that you ,” the minibot paused for a breath, “are getting haunted by a ghost!”

“Nope!” SK-37 nearly sprinted over to the dispensary, “ I am NOT getting involved in this. You can talk about ghosts all you like over there, and I will enjoy my ignorance over here.” She sat down on her berth with finality.

“Aw, where’s the fun in that, Sizzle?”

“Do you not hear yourself?”

“Whatever you’re doing over there,” A-24 broke away from his money counting, “better have you in working order when we finish clearing out the red levels tomorrow. They still expect us to maintain regular output.”

“With only four of us?! Ugh.” SK-37 gritted her dentae and muttered curses against upper management and unrealistic high expectations with low rewards.

“They can’t be serious,” D-16 growled. “It takes at least three teams of five mechs per section for us to meet our unit’s quota. We were short-staffed before, and now there is only a fraction of us left. The math explains itself.”

A-24 glared at his collection of shanix, “It’s what that ‘team lead’ slagger told me. A fraggin’ made-up title-” He dissolved back into muttered curses.

D-16 clenched his shaking servos, his vents released bursts of hot air, and his lips contorted into a snarl while his engine growled.

Why are we expected to drop everything and help every other slaggin’ department that should have their operations in order at the drop of a pin? Yet, no help comes to us when we are understaffed and overworked. No! They take more of us away to help another level and get mad when we don’t meet the quota. D-16’s dentae began to hurt from grinding them.

“Oh…that’s…that’s stellar.” RM-4 whispered, staring at the ground.

The broken sound snapped the other miner out of his vengeful haze and he glanced down at the minibot. A hollowness had overtaken the smaller mech’s remaining white optic.

“Anyways!” RM-4 forced out, noticing D-16’s concerned gaze, “Ghosts! I want in. I don’t know your plan or if you have one, but I’m down for whatever,” the minibot gave a thumbs up.

Several hours later, RM-4 and D-16 were on level T-18, holding a mock funeral.

They had to sneak past a few mechs, navigate a maze of debris, and walk past miles of ‘DO NOT ENTER’ and ‘DANGER’ signs to get to the depths of the red levels. Luckily, the tracker tag feeders were offline so they had anonymity on their side.

The funeral itself was a humble affair. While not well attended — SK-37 refused to come, A-24 was recharging, and the few miners the duo had talked to didn’t recognize anyone from D-16’s description — the red-level miners made sure to have proper emblems for the final rites.  These emblems consisted of a giant rock acting as a grave marker, a broken datapad with directions to the Well of Allsparks in Tyger Pax etched into the back, and a bottle of cheap engex. They were all set.

D-16 stepped forward and cleared his intake, “Thank you for coming,  RM-4.” 

“Anytime!” The minibot chirped.

“We will begin by having a moment of silence for this unknown mech.”

They were silent for a moment.

“Thank you, we will now hear remarks from me. After that, we will hear closing remarks from RM-4.”

D-16 clasped his hands together and began,  “We did not personally know the deceased. I first met him after the recent tremor when he accused me of killing him.”

“Did you?”

“ No . The tremor was the final degree in a death administered over vorns of choking on dust, crumbling under unrealistic quotas, and being a cog in the great but terrible machine of the Tarnian mine.

“It is hoped that when we die, we will find peace and rest in the eternal light of our creator, Primus. Where all are one. Some suggest that all of our suffering and good work in this life will cleanse our sparks, and Primus will grant us a better station in the next. Others say that there is no afterlife. Whatever awaits us on the other side, the fact remains: this mech was not freed in death. So we hold this funeral and give our humble offerings in the hopes that he will have what we are denied: peace and justice.”

D-16 bowed his helm and stepped back to stand by RM-4.

“That was beautiful.” The minibot whispered.

“Thanks,” he whispered back, “I didn’t know where I was going in the middle there.”

“That’s fine. So~,” the other miner glanced around the collapsed tunnel, “When does the ghost show up?”

“The point of this is to make him stop showing up.”

“Oh, yeah! Forgot about that. Uhm, guess I should say something.” He cleared his throat as he saw D-16 do and stepped forward, “Accept our engex. It cost five shanix.”

“We will now pour one out for the fallen.” 

D-16 grabbed the bottle of engex, undid the cap, and poured the contents on the ground. When the final drops fell he put the cap back on and turned to address RM-4.

“Thus concludes the funeral. The ghost should now sto-akdjdkkd!”

The specter of death stood a few paces away from the improvised funeral. His optics focused intently on the engex that pooled on the ground.

“What is it? D-16, what’s wrong?” RM-4 whipped his helm around, but the minibot's optics passed unseeingly over the dead mech.

“The ghost! He’s right behind you!” D-16 stabbed a finger at said ghost.

“I don’t see anyone but us, Dee,” RM-4 frowned.

The mini miner took a couple steps back, continuing to look around in concern but never seeing the ghost.

“Hey, Mr. Ghost,” the tank greeted, holding his servos up, “We just held a funeral for you-.”

“Why,” the specter spoke, cutting him off, “Why do you waste what we have bled, fought, and killed for a single drop of?”

“Killed?! We didn’t kill anyone! It cost five shanix at the store,” D-16 yelped.

“Who got killed? Are we getting killed? Dee?!” RM-4 started to tremble as his optics darted around.

“How dare you mock the fallen,” The specter’s optics were feverish.

He moved his arm from his side, revealing a non-mine-issued war ax. D-16 watched in stunned horror as, with a flick of the wrist, the weapon blazed alive in a searing red.

“How dare you put so little value on life.”

“Dee?” the minibot cried out, spooked by his friend’s silence. 

“You have gotten away with your crimes for too long. Never again! It ends here. It ends now .” The specter swung the ax into a high arc, the blade slicing into the walls and creating a shower of sparks with a high wailing screech .

“Run!” D-16 yelled.

RM-4 shot off like a rocket with D-16 close behind. 

The war ax sliced into the ground where they had stood like it was wet clay before it was yanked out as the ghost gave pursuit.

The miners stumbled and tripped over rock and debris in their haste to outrun death. The shrieking sparks erupting from the ax dogged their steps. D-16 refused to look back as he ran. He swore he felt singed air swing closely by his helm.

However, the red miner’s luck ran out when he collided with an unforgiving steel beam. Dazed by pain, he clutched at his helm in surprise and stumbled backward as his systems frantically recalculated centroid sensors.

A sharp crack of displaced air was the only warning he received to dodge before the war ax cleaved the steel beam in two.

“Coward! Where is your bravado? Your accursed pride? Has it fled with your Decepticons?” The ghost growled.

“I just work here!” D-16 picked a path at random and blindly tore his way through.

He raced through what he vaguely recalled was a secondary passage and passed by a mine cart hoist. He threw himself down the incline mining shaft the hoist controlled. The cart tracks cracked against his frame as he slid down the shaft, with the walls scratching against his plating. A lowered interior bridge slammed into his frame and halted his escape. He lunged off the bridge and into a tertiary tunnel.

His hopes for outmaneuvering the ghost shattered as he came upon a dead end.

The blazing war ax shot past his helm and impaled the wall, announcing the specter's presence. D-16 scrambled for the weapon’s handle, but his servos passed uselessly through.

“Are you kidding me right now?!”

“End of the line,” the dead mech solemnly proclaimed as he stalked down the tunnel.

“Let’s talk this out. You seem somewhat reasonable,” D-16 pleaded, “I didn’t think the engex would upset you so much. I was trying to help.”

“Help? You have destroyed everything and everyone you have ever ‘helped.’” The specter scoffed, settling into a battle stance.

The miner flinched at the scathing assessment, “Have mercy?”

“You, who has never shown mercy, expect to receive it?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” D-16 forced out through gritted dentae, backing into the wall. His vents were heaving hard, and he felt a sharp pain in his chest plates that grew with his mounting distress.

“Stop playing games. You know what I’m talking about!” 

The ghost struck out, and the miner threw himself to the ground to avoid the blow.

CRACK!

Unstable ground broke apart underneath D-16’s frame, sending him spiraling down, down, down into the dark depths. His screams bounced off the walls, creating a demented echo chamber as he continued to fall. He choked out a gasp upon finally hitting solid ground. For a moment, he struggled to bring any air into his frame. His HUD pinged warnings to breathe, or we will melt a circuit!

His HUD went on the fritz as debris bashed into his helm. Steel beams and rock crashed into his frame as they began to bury him. 

He was forged to be tough, to withstand extreme conditions. He would survive. He always did. But in the darkness, and under the increasing pressure that made his frame creak and groan in distress, that did not feel like a positive.

Vaguely, before his systems went into emergency shutdown, he hoped RM-4 got away safely.

Gr…gr…k…k…grk….

D-16 slowly strained his optics open at the sound of scraping. 

He was greeted by the dark. His helmet light valiantly flickered back on.

The scraping noise continued as D-16 collected his wits and tried to remember how he had ended up in yet another rock tomb.

Skrk…k…k…gr…

Did the ERTs arrive already? Usually, I dig myself out before they get here, D-16 thought blearily.

According to his system's log reports, he had been out for hours. There was also a note about heightened distress, terror, and fear before the emergency shutdown caused by…

How could I have forgotten about that fragger! D-16 jolted against the rock, cracking his helm and letting out a pained hiss. Char was right: the dead are too much trouble to deal with. Why didn’t I listen? Now I’ve been entombed, and no one knows where to find me! I should have left well enough alone. But no , I had to go be a slaggin’ soft spark and help the murder mech kill me. Best idea ever, D-16, easily top ten!

The miner berated himself for several more minutes as the scraping sounds of rock and metal being removed continued to fill the air.

Wait, D-16 paused in his internal abuse, if the trackers are down, who is moving the debris?

The light within his tomb gradually increased as more material was shifted away. He forced himself to breathe evenly and tensed his frame. 

With a final skrrrrt, light flooded his optics, and he flinched away. Blinking rapidly, he refocused his optics and quickly zeroed in on his rescuer.

“YOU!” He thundered out.

“You’re alive! I was worried I would not get you out in time,” the ghost replied, sagging in relief.

“No thanks to you, you-!” D-16 let out a litany of curses that would have made A-24 proud. 

Perhaps he should refrain from cursing out the mech that had tried to kill him just hours ago, but he was exhausted from the earlier mad dash and being entombed. 

It had been an orn . 

No, scratch that.

It had been an orn . 

It had been a whole life .  

He was firmly past caring.

“I apologize for my actions. I was severely confused and mistook you for a different mech. I ask for your forgiveness, but I am under no delusion that I deserve or am entitled to it.” Large, guilty optics bore into D-16’s red ones as the murder mech sincerely apologized.

“Just. Get. Me. OUT.”

The ghost ducked out of sight and continued excavating the other mech from his tomb. When he could move his arms, D-16 extracted himself the rest of the way. Murdery McBotBot, the miner pettily named the other mech in his mind, politely stepped away to give him room to reorientate himself.

D-16 had crashed through a tertiary tunnel and into a cavern that opened into T-19. To the right of him were carts filled with monolithic-sized energon ore. Beyond the minecarts, a collapsed wall blocked off the rest of the way. To his left were tracks that led up into the inclined mine cart shaft. This shaft, in turn, would connect back to T-18.

Satisfied with his assessment and a route to get back to safety forming in his processor, D-16 whipped around and decked the ghost. 

He attempted to anyway. 

Sadly, his fist sailed harmlessly through surprised face plates. 

The miner cursed.

“Curious. That didn’t hurt me,” the ghost observed.

“To both of our disappointments, I’m sure.” D-16 glared at the other mech before marching over to the minecart shaft. “Why are the main lights on?”

“I turned them on so I could see better.”

Approaching the shaft, the miner flipped a switch on the control panel embedded into the wall. An electric hum and metallic clanking let him know that the bridges in the shaft were opening up, allowing him to climb his way to freedom. 

“You can cut metal with your ax, turn on the lights, move rocks, scare me and my friend to the brink of deactivation, and yet I cannot punch you in the face. Life is cruel.” Not waiting for the ghost to reply, he started shimming up the shaft.

When he got to T-18, the specter was there waiting for him. The miner ignored the other mech and resolutely marched out of the secondary tunnel.

It was not until he passed the same energon crystal formation three times that he had to face the facts: he was lost. With a sigh, he slumped to the ground and buried his face into his knee joints.

“Don’t talk to me.” He muttered.

The ghost simply sat down by the mech in silence.

After a while, D-16 turned his helm to look at the other mech, “What’s your name?”

“I thought you didn’t want me to talk to you?” The ghost quipped. 

“True.” the miner conceded, “But I would rather not call you Murdery McBotBot any longer than I have to.”

“That would be appreciated.”

The mech rolled back his pauldrons and lifted up his chin, as if in grand preparation of revealing his name.

D-16 betted it was common like ‘Convoy’ or pretentious like ‘Leader-One’.

“My name is Optimus Prime. I am the leader of the Autobo-, are you alright?”

D-16 was currently choking on air.

“You’re a prime!?” He sputtered. 

“Yes.”

“A dead prime is down here in the mines?!”

“It appears that way, yes. Although, I am as confused as you.”

“A prime tried to kill me!?”

“Er, yes. Again, my sincerest apologies.” Optimus nervously shifted. 

D-16 leaned against the wall, staring into space as he muttered, “He’s a prime. I was nearly murdered by a prime. I tried to punch a prime in the face. What-? Why-?”

“I cannot apologize enough for the harm my actions caused you. If you are willing, I would like to make restitution for my earlier behavior and help guide you back to safety.” The prime interrupted his stupor.

“What do you need my permission for? You're a prime , I’m an indentured miner . You can do whatever you want. Isn’t that the whole point of being Primus’s chosen avatar-mech-guy?”

Optimus’s optics hardened, “No, that is not, as you say, ‘the point.’ That is not why I am prime. I must lead and be strong enough to be kind. And I have failed that completely today. Please, let me help you. If not, I will stay by your side to ward off any other dangers you may encounter.” He earnestly offered.

D-16 gestured down the tunnel, “Lead the way.”

The prime’s ghost took point and confidently led the miner through the labyrinth of T-18. Occasionally, he would stop and tilt his helm, before continuing.

The miner tried to avoid staring at the battle wounds and gaping chasm carved into the prime as they walked.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how do you know where we need to go?” the miner inquired.

“Through the energon.”

“The energon?”

“Energon is akin to Cybertron’s life force. There are numerous ways to make energon. I have seen it made from electricity and even from solar power. The specific type of energy that naturally occurs here on Cybertron and its colonies, which keeps Cybertron alight, is only harnessed through mining. I have, well, had this energy in me. I focus on that specific energy signature and follow where it guides me.”

“So where is it guiding us?”

“Back to where you held my ‘funeral’.”

D-16 flushed at the reminder of the disaster that was the mock funeral.

“I am touched that you would do that for me, a mech you had never known. Perhaps it was not the grandest funeral ever held for me, but it was sincere in its intentions.”

“You’ve had other funerals?”

“Yes. This is not the first time I have died. But it seems like this time has finally stuck.”

“...Let’s talk about something else.”

“Let’s.”

D-16 glanced around as they continued their trek, searching for a topic to fill the silence. 

“Who did this to you? Were you sent down into the mines to die?”

“I was already dead, so no.”

“Why were you trying to kill me?”

“My mind was in a fog, and I mistook you for the mech who did this to me,” he gestured to the hole in his chest plates. “When I finally came to my senses, I realized what I had done and began digging you out as fast as possible.”

D-16 mulled over what Optimus said. He was curious about who would be powerful enough to kill a prime, how the prime ended up down here, and so much more. But he hesitated to ask further. While Optimus had not declined to answer his questions, the prime’s mien had grown dark. 

“What’s your alt mode?” 

Yes, alt modes, that is a safe subject. 

“It is a Freightliner FL86 Cab-over-Engine triple-axle semi-truck.” There was a note of pride in the mech’s voice. “I even have my own trailer.”

Hooray,  D-16 got good marks in small talk. 

“Really? We have some truckformers here in the mine, but they’re mostly haul trucks. They’re really big. They barely fit into some of the tunnels.”

“I can sympathize with that plight. I had to temporarily replace my alt mode with an all-terrain expeditionary vehicle, and it bulked up my root mode much more than I would prefer. I had to enter a tunnel, and I could not fit via root mode. I had to transform into alt mode to do it. Even then, it was a tight fit.” Optimus recounted with a chuckle.

“When you’re in alt mode, you have a trailer, right?” D-16 mused.

“Yes.”

“Where does the trailer go when you transform?”

The prime stopped and blinked before resuming the trek, “I am not exactly sure, to be honest. I have had different trailers over the vorns: one is specifically designed to hold my armory, another reconfigures into a portable battle station, and there is a regular trailer for hauling. Sometimes they stay, and sometimes they disappear. It mystifies even my top scientists,” Optimus chuckled.

“Why do you prefer a Freightliner and not a different kind of truck?” D-16 knew nothing about trucks. But the topic lifted the prime’s mood, so he continued the conversation.

“I like the better maneuverability, increased visibility to avoid accidents, and I can pull a longer trailer. I have thought of trying a Kensworth 100. But I stayed with the Freightliner.”

“What's Kensworth? And what’s the difference between your alt and that?”

“Kensworth is an American truck manufacturer from the planet Earth. Freightliners are manufactured by an American company owned by Mercedez-Benz, a German brand from the same planet. Additionally, Freightliners have an angular grill, while Kensworth usually has a curved section on top of the grill. I know a mech with a Kensworth alt named Motormaster. He despises it whenever mechs compare us or mistake him for me. I would hate to be the subject of his ire anymore than I am if I rolled onto the battlefield as a Kensworth 100.”

“You must have lived long ago to have an alt mode from an entirely different planet.”

“Why do you say that?”

“There hasn’t been much space travel lately. An occasional research vessel is sent out, but most interstellar transports are grounded. I read about it on the holonet the last time my unit and I had a free day.”

Optimus looked troubled by this news and hummed thoughtfully to himself.

D-16 looked to the side, recognizing the ax marks carved into the wall. 

They had arrived.

The miner walked over to the funeral site and picked up the datapad. Turning around, he offered it to Optimus.

“The datapad is broken, but on the back is a map with directions to the Well of Allsparks. Maybe you’ll get answers there.”

Optimus accepted the datapad, “I trust your judgment. Thank you, friend.”

“I can find my way back from here. But before you go: can you show me how you write your name?”

“Of course.”

Crouching down, Optimus wrote three glyphs with intricate sweeping lines in the dust, “This is my name in the traditional language of the primes. Standard Neocybex is a fifth iteration simplified version of the primal vernacular. So in Neocybex, you would write it like this,” above the primal vernacular he wrote seven glyphs that were less intricate and more uniform squares. 

“This glyph in primal vernacular,” he pointed at one of the glyphs where a shining star squiggle rested above a more complex script, “is a modified form of ‘Primus.’ Primus means ‘the first one,’ so this denotes my placement in the lineage of primes dating back from Primus himself. A possible translation for it would be ‘36th steward in the lineage of Primus, of the order of Primus.’ My placement is left out in Neocybex but retains the modified Primus title: Prime.” He pointed at the remaining two glyphs, “While that glyph was my title, these two form my name. The first glyph can mean ‘ascended or transformed,’ while the second stands for 'potential, growth, or power.’ This mark ties them together and means ‘great or honored one.’ Neocybex has it as a modified form of ‘optimist,’ an apt description according to those who know me. In full primal vernacular, my name translates to ‘36th in the Order of the First One, Primus, Great and Honored One, Ascended Potential.”

D-16 gazed at the primal vernacular glyphs in fascination.

“I never asked for your designation. Would you please tell me yours?” Optimus asked politely.

“D-16.”

“Your name is Dig ?” The prime was incredulous.

“Yep.” D-16 popped the ‘p’. “Or, if you prefer, ‘Delta Series Number 16 of the Grande Cyberfactory of Kaon,’ in standard product line signature.” He teased.

Following the exchange of names, the two mechs parted amicably.

The red miner carefully made his way out of  T-18 and ascended the levels in the transport lift to get back to the residential sector. He had four hours left to recharge before it was time for his shift. 

When he exited the lift, a crying blur crashed into him. Steadying himself and the blur, he looked down to see RM-4, coolant sparkling in the minibot’s remaining optic.

“Thank Primus, you’re alive! We don’t have to do a second funeral now. Let’s never go ghost hunting again.” RM-4 gave a watery smile as he gripped D-16 in a mighty side hug that made the miner’s frame creak in protest.

“What are you carrying?” D-16 gestured to RM-4’s arm burdened with a random assortment of items.

“Oh, these were for your funeral. Which is no longer on! I got the more expensive engex that cost ten shanix. I also have a bunch of quartz flowers that this mech named Char gave me before I ran back down here. Guess we could put them in a nice box back home. Maybe in an energon glass?”

“RM-4, we have a shift in four hours.” D-16 gently reminded him.

“Oh yeah! Let’s walk and talk then.” The minibot started to walk back the way he came, followed by D-16. “What happened to the ghost? I was so scared when I looked back, and you weren’t there. I searched for you but I couldn’t find anything but scorch marks.”

“I think I became friends with the ghost?”

RM-4 looked the other mech up and down, taking in the dents, plating caked in dirt, and minor scrapes. “Not sure if I’d call this friendly, but ok.”

When D-16 finally collapsed into his berth for the night, he groped around in the dark and pulled out a sharpened metal stylus. Curling around the edge of the birth and turning his helm light down to the lowest possible setting, he carved careful strokes into the metal.

Satisfied, he put the stylus away and powered down for the remainder of the night cycle.

Gleaming in silver metal laid the specter’s name:

Optimus Prime.

Chapter Text

“This is NOT a break,” the glitch complained.

“I am on official leave, barring any emergencies, and outside the office,” Prowl muttered into his energon cube.

They were in the outdoor seating section of a cafe at one of Praxus’s many crystal garden plazas. The sunlight filtering through the cultivated crystals cast dazzling rainbows on the pavement stones and shops.

Placing the energon cube down, Prowl added some prescribed medical additives to the energon cube to boost his natural nanites in fixing his frame. He also added other additives from a canister the barista had given him with an odd look. 

“Magnesium bisglycinate? That stuff is nasty ,” his conscience grimaced, “Tastes like a fish, Prowler. A slimy fish .”

“Furthermore,” Prowl continued, adding another heap of the mineral that made the glitch shudder in disgust, “I am out in the sunshine, and there is music, just as you recommended,” Prowl tilted his helm towards a busker on the street corner, entertaining a few mechs with a crystal harp.

Despite the area being near an upscale neighborhood, only a couple of mechs were out in the plaza that morning. 

“Uh-huh. First off, my mech,” the glitch countered, “this plaza is part of yer assigned patrol route. It’s like takin’ yer mid-orn energon at a bar ya work at. Defeats the whole purpose of a day off from work. Second,” here he stabbed a finger at Prowl’s dubious concoction, “ that is an abomination against the Tyrest Accords, if not against Primus himself. Third, this is the darkest corner ya could find out here,” he gestured towards the corner that Prowl had holed up in. It was indeed the shadiest place outside. “Which, alright, ya get a pass on ‘cause of yer injuries. However, ya don’t get a pass for goin’ up ta that busker the moment ya got here and demandin’ ta see his permit.”

“The city has officially designated times and areas for the public performance of music for fiscal gain. Granted, the mech in question had a correct and up-to-date public performance license. However, his permit needed to be renewed in five orns. I was helping remind him.”

“Ya scared that mech so bad he messed up the first bars ta Drops of Luna 1.”

Prowl sipped his poison energon.

The Polyhexian threw back his helm in defeat and slumped in the chair across from the detective. He gazed longingly at some sweet mineral flakes that a nearby patron was adding to their energon.

The glitch jolted up straight, “Hey, ya see that guy? Civvie? Headin’ this way?”

Prowl glanced up, curious what had startled his conscience. Or, more rationally, what had his tac net processed in the periphery and then translated into the glitch.

A medium-built mech with black and white plating accented by red and blue racing stripes was headed towards the cafe. A pair of compact white doorwings, near decorative compared to a typical Praxian’s, occasionally flicked around on his back plating. He was nodding his helm as he hummed a song to himself, a cytar case decorated with decals slung around his back. His light blue visor shielded his optics.

He looked concerningly similar to Prowl’s glitch. The plating was thinner, not as thick or bulky as war-grade armor. He had no visible injuries either. Additionally, the glitch did not possess external door wings in root mode, while this mech did. He was also, thankfully, real . A friendly hello between the mysterious mech and the patron with the flakes confirmed as much.

Prowl watched the mech enter the establishment.

“He’s the musician replacing the current one in an hour,” Prowl murmured.

“How’s that?”

“The current musician’s license allows him to perform here until the late-morning hours, then he must cease his performance on the premises. It is not out of scope to presume that another musician will come and play after him. Especially as we head to mid-orn, there will be more mechs and better chances to earn shanix. This busker was unfortunate in receiving an early-orn permit.”

With that assessment, Prowl got up, downed his energon cube, and headed into the cafe.

“What’re ya doin’?” The glitch asked as he caught up to the enforcer.

“I am going to ask for proof of a permit and registration from the city to perform in this square at the posted hours,” Prowl muttered under his breath as he entered the building. He didn’t have the privacy of his office to speak out loud to the glitch.

The hallucination had no such problems.

“What?!” the Polyhexian yelped, “C’mon! I thought we were makin’ progress.”

Prowl placed the empty cube on a rack by other dirtied glasses and headed towards a table in the back where the mystery musician was tuning his cytar.

“Okay, real quick,” the glitch ran in front of Prowl, causing the other mech to halt in his tracks, “Let me run this by ya. As an enforcer, which is the higher priority: keepin’ Cybertron safe or checkin’ everyone fer permits?”

The Praxian lightly scoffed, “Keeping Cybertron safe.”

“Awesome. Next question: are all the permits and registrations necessary ta keepin’ Cybertron safe?”

“The rules are there for a-“

“A-buh-buh-buh! Are all these permits and registrations necessary ta keep Cybertron safe?”

“It’s- they’re the rules. Rules are there to prevent anarchy. Anarchy incites a power vacuum that allows opportunistic parties to seize control and abuse the rights of others in the chaos.”

“Sure, I’ll give ya that. So what’s the reason fer these rules? Is it fer safety or control?”

“It’s-“

The Polyhexian’s frame glitched and flickered. Prowl raised a concerned servo in surprise before aborting the gesture. The hallucination never flickered before. It was just there, and then it wasn’t.

“Actually, time’s runnin’ out, so one last question for ya ta chew on ‘till next time: the higher priority is ta keep Cybertron safe. So what is Cybertron? Is it the buildings and regulations, or the bots that live here?”

Prowl was about to reply when the hallucination violently flickered again.

“An’ Prowler? Please be open ta makin’ a friend. I know ya’ve been burned, but ya can’t do this alone.”

With that plea, the hallucination flickered out of existence. Leaving Prowl to gaze wide opticked at the spot the glitch had occupied just a second ago.

The mystery musician had stopped tuning his cytar and was looking at Prowl with a concerned tilt of his helm.

“Hey, mech,” the musician called out, “ya good? Ya’ve been standin’ there fer a while now. Sit and drink somethin’. Ya look like ya need it.”

The concern snapped Prowl out of his shock. He straightened up and schooled his features into a calm mask. He finished walking over to the musician, who pushed a chair out and gestured for the enforcer to sit. Prowl hesitated for a moment before he complied. The musician pushed the second cube of energon he had towards the enforcer.

“M’ name’s Jazz, by the way.” The musician, Jazz, offered.

“I am Prowl.”

“Nice ta’ meet ya’, Prowl. I got some bentonite if ya like yer energon creamy and my favorite, sweet, sweet, melanterite flakes.” Jazz gestured to each mineral compound in their cafe canisters as he listed them off.

Prowl nodded mutely, still rattled by the strange departure of his conscience.

What caused such a rapid fluctuation? What does this indicate about my processor’s state? Is it deteriorating further, or is it repairing itself? The Praxian worried.

“C’mon, have a drink. I don’t mind none, honest.”

Prowl checked his fuel gauge. There was still room for another cube of energon. 

But there was being friendly, and there was being foolish. There were too many unknowns concerning this mech to consider accepting the proffered glass.

“I don’t mean any offense, but I must decline the offer. Thank you for the concern.”

Jazz shrugged nonchalantly and resumed tuning his cytar, “None taken. The offer still stands if ya ever change yer processor, though. But while yer here, mind if I ask what ya were standin’ over there fer?”

Prowl straightened up at the question, “I would like to look over your public performance license from the city to ensure it is up-to-date and compliant with the posted times and places.”

The musician stared at the enforcer before replying, “Well, I did ask, didn’t I? Here’s the permits, everythin’ should be in order.”

The musician pulled out a handful of permits he had stashed in his open cytar case placed on another chair. The flimsies were crumpled and folded over themselves into a wrinkled mess. Prowl accepted the licenses, slightly curious why they weren’t housed on a more standard datapad and started to flip through them, noting the locations, times, and renewal dates on each one.

The licenses were sporadic in what times the musician would play. Some were early-orn, like here in this plaza, and a couple were late in the evenings. Two licenses permitted the mech to play from the middle of the night into the morning in a couple areas noted for having a vibrant nightlife. 

“Do you move from one location to the next throughout the orn?” Prowl asked.

“Mmm, yeah. Keeps it interestin,’ and it keeps my options open fer however I’m feelin’ that day. Some days, ya want ta play it light. Others, ya want ta play fortissimo.”

“Some of these locations you play at are in highly competitive areas. This one,” Prowl held up the license in question, ”is for Lithic Square, an extremely high caste sector. It must be expensive to have this many permits. Not including the pricier high-profile area licenses.”

Jazz grinned at that, calm despite the interrogation, “I lucked into some fortune at an Altihex casino. I was gettin’ near quittin’ time, y’know when the house says yer too good ta keep playin’, when this Praxian that was there caused a commotion. He made what I was winnin’ look like chump change.”

Prowl’s door wing flicked, and his shoulders slumped, “Did you catch the name of this Praxian?”

“Yeah, the mech’s name was Smokescreen. He was unbelievably good at cards. I don’t know if they let him cash out the chips because I had high-tailed it out of there before then.”

Prowl’s mouth thinned into a frown as he held back a sigh. That explains the black optic his brother had when he came home from his trip to Altihex. It also explained why Smokescreen could buy a superfluously expensive energon mineral additives subscription for a whole vorn.

“They have authentic Harmonex Lithic crystals, Prowl! And look at this: complementary Mebion Engex for first-time subscribers.” His brother had defended himself when pressed about why he had spent a small fortune, shoving the subscription pamphlet in the detective’s face. As if that would justify the string of zeros after the shanix glyph.

Back in the cafe and away from Smokescreen’s questionable life choices, Prowl continued, “These permits are due to expire soon. You will want to go to city hall and reserve these ahead of time to make sure you keep your most lucrative spots. The permits department is stringent about renewals and policy compliance, so it is best to act now.” 

“That’s fine,” Jazz frowned as one string he was tuning persisted in sounding slightly off, “I’m plannin’ on leavin’ in a couple orns anyway. Thinkin’ of visitin’ Tetrahex. I got a ticket fer an opera that’s gettin’ put on down there durin’ monsoon season. A buddy of mine scored it fer me. Galvatron’s Last Stand, I think it’s called. It should be fun ta watch. Then swing over to Ky-Alexia, be a tourist fer a sec’.”

“How long were you in Carpessa?”

“In what-?” Jazz asked, taken aback by the abrupt turn in the conversation.

Prowl raised a servo and silently pointed to a purple and black Dinobot alt mode decal on the cytar case. 

In ancient days, Carpessa was once the home of the city titan, Trypticon. During the titan wars, when city-states actively fought and conquered each other, the titan left Carpessa after a devastating battle with Omega Supreme, a titan who notably refused to take any sides in the conflict. Carpessa continued to use Dinobot motifs in their architecture as a tribute to their violent guardian. 

It also worked great for tourism merchandising.

“Oh, yeah, Carpessa. I was there fer a decaorn before I left and went ta Harmonex. It was brief, but the mechs on the coast there were nice enough. At least they don’t care about caste systems like Iacon or Petrex does.” Jazz smiled as he thrummed the troublesome chord, finally getting it in tune.

“Is that why you left Polyhex? Due to the increase in functionalist caste system laws?”

“Gettin' a bit personal there, mech," the musician side-opticked the enforcer, "But yeah, those functionalists from Petrex managed ta get a foothold in Polyhex." Despite his earlier words, this seemed to open a floodgate as Jazz continued to speak, "Which is bizarre, considerin’ Petrex is on the other side of Cybertron. Like we didn’t already have enough problems between the northern and southern districts, they come in with “sustainin’ the light of Primus,” and the whole city-state erupts. But Polyhex shares the Praerorus Wharf with Iacon, and Iacon has their whole caste system issues that have been makin’ its way in over the vorns.” He paused, “Perhaps we didn’t stand a chance against this functionalist stuff ta begin with? Just happened quicker than anyone thought it would. Ya also got mechs scared about these tremors, so they’ll take whatever solution they can get. Doesn’t make sense how expolitin’ another mech is gonna stop tectonic shifts though. A clever system, functionalism: dividin’ mechs based on their work.”

Jazz began playing a melancholic tune on his cytar. His visor darkened, “Ever since those functionalists gained power, there’s no more music. No one parties together. It’s quiet.” 

The musician played a few more notes before letting the final chord ring into silence. The Polyhexian gazed at a point beyond the cafe with a frown. A servo rubbed at the glyph for “Marshall” inscribed on his instrument.

Jazz returned to the present with a mirthless laugh, “Sorry ‘bout that! I promise ya, I don’t normally get all dark and dramatic when conversin’ with a mech I just met. Yer easy ta talk to. Anyone told ya that?”

No one had ever told Prowl that in his entire functioning. The enforcer would keel over into the scrap heap before he described himself as ‘easy to talk to.’

“No,” Prowl stated flatly.

“Eh, different strokes fer different folks. On an unrelated note, can I have my permits back now? Kinda need those fer the next time an enforcer stops me.” Jazz teased, but there was an edge to his voice and a wariness to his frame. 

A flash of guilt ripped through Prowl. He still held the flimsies in one servo.

He handed the licenses back, “Apologies.”

“Thanks.” The musician folded the permits and put them back in his cytar case.

“Please do not feel bad for…confiding in me,” Prowl began haltingly. His servos fiddled with an energon mixing stick as he glanced down, “I have it on…good authority that it is…beneficial to talk about what burdens you with another person. And this…issue means a lot to you…I am sorry you went through that.” He finished lamely.

“Thanks, mech.”

They sat in somber silence.

It wasn’t a problem either mech could solve at that moment. The issue of functionalism and caste systems permeated the air of cybertronian life. Some mechs denied it was happening, claiming it was a bygone ancient relic. Others in positions to enact laws abolishing the system were typically high caste and did not see caste-based discrimination, violence, and murder as a priority. Most lived the reality of being considered lesser for the “benefit of society”.

Praxus technically followed a caste system. For all of the polity’s policies and regulations, the enforcement of the arbitrary hierarchy was relatively lax, to the point of being nonexistent. In regions like Petrex or Iacon, Jazz would be considered a caste-breaker, a “broken” mech. To choose to play music for a living when his alt mode was better suited for a different profession was blasphemous. For the lowly musician to even offer Prowl, his “better” according to Iaconian functionalism, his energon would be seen as a crime punishable by imprisonment or reprogramming. In Praxus, it barely earned a second glance.

Prowl rhythmically tapped the stirring stick against the table in deep thought.

Tap, tap, tap….tap… tap, tap, tap….tap…

Curiously, Jazz started to nod his head alongside the unimaginative rhythm.

“That’s a cool beat,” the musician said, ”but let’s try somethin’ more dynamic. Keep the rhythm fer now, and let’s audition some chord progressions.”

Dutifully, if not slightly confused by the jargon, Prowl kept up the simple beat as Jazz started playing a couple chords, giving form to the improvised music.

“Alright, now let’s switch it up with some different chords at a faster speed.” The musician’s servos flew across the fretboard and strings, picking up the pace. The cafe was filled with the combined sound of cytar and percussion. It was not elegant or conventionally pleasant, but there was a charm to the sound.

Oddly enough, Prowl found he had begun to tap his pede and flick his door wing in enjoyment.

“Oh! Wait a sec’, I got an idea,” Jazz then downed the two energon cubes before flipping them over. “Here, put yer servos on the fretboard and over the strings,” He instructed while pushing the cytar into Prowl’s servos, “Yer gonna play this note with yer servo like this before progressin’ ta this one. One strum each, but hold each note fer one count.” The musician instructed, adjusting the enforcer’s fingers when needed. “Repeat that a couple time,s and on the third repeat, hold the first note fer four counts. Make sense?”

Prowl nodded as he dialed up his tac net to analyze and assess the music. His fingers fumbled as he tried to contort them into the foreign positions that Jazz demonstrated. He was sure he miscounted more than once. However, while Prowl had no recollection of playing an instrument in his entire functioning, it was strangely exhilarating, even if his attempts were amateurish. His tac net hummed as it dissected the algebra, pitch frequencies, and patterns behind the chords. 

The rules were straightforward, the objective clear, and the feedback instant. This business of making music contained the same logic and quiet thrill Prowl felt conducting tactical operations for the enforcers. 

While the amateur stumbled through chords and counts, the maestro had begun tapping individual digits on one servo against one of the cubes and pounding a fist on the other cube. Creating a lively tune.

“This is goin’ ta be the bass,” he quipped. The fist quickly flashed open to strike a thumb against the edge of the glass before going back into a fist, repeating the pattern.

Prowl missed another chord, lost the count again, and probably a million other music minutiae mistakes, distracted as he was by how Jazz was able to make an energon cube sound like a proper percussion instrument with seemingly effortless skill.

“Let’s add ta the ensemble,” the Polyhexian started tapping at the table and thumping at his cytar case in improvised moves. Unperturbed by the off-pitch twang coming from the cytar in Prowl’s servos.

The crystal ringing from the cubes increased as Jazz picked up the pace. The song reached a fever pitch of rhythm and harmony before two quick raps of the musician’s servos against the table signaled the end of the impromptu jamming session.

Jazz looked at Prowl with a giddy smile, the Polyhexian’s door wings fluttering in exhilaration.

The Praxian was pleased he could help uplift the other mech’s mood. It was rare that the tactician could succesfully pull that off. His fingers twinged a bit from the mostly healed welds being disturbed by the steel wires, and his helmache had come back, making him wince from the music and lights of the cafe. However, he deemed it an acceptable sacrifice.

Also, they weren’t playing for financial gain, the musician’s public performance license was up to date, and they were in a private establishment that was mostly empty. Prowl’s strict sense of rules was appeased.

“I love music,” Jazz started, his words coming out quicker than usual in his excitement, “It’s a universal language that touches yer spark and moves ya in ways no other thing can. It’s electric, it’s soft, it’s roarin’, it’s-it’s-gah! I don’t have the glyphs ta do it justice. It makes me happy.” He was almost vibrating in his seat as he did his best to explain. His servos flew from gesture to gesture in a futile attempt to articulate what words alone could not.

Prowl handed Jazz back his cytar, “Coming from a maestro such as yourself, it is not hard to appreciate it.”

“Hey now, don’t sell yerself short, Prowl. Ya were playin’ percussion and strings there. I saw ya! Don’t deny it.”

“I’m an enforcer. My servos are not for playing music, and I fear I have little talent.”

“Psh!” Jazz scoffed, playfully shoving at Prowl’s arm, “Don’t give me that! Talent shmalent. Of course yer not gonna get it right on yer first try. What? Ya think I was forged with a cytar in hand? Nah, mech, I had ta study and practice until my fingers bled. Even mechs with music-based alt modes have ta practice before shows. I’ve been ta those music halls, I’ve seen them practicin’ and messin’ up plenty of times, but they persevere. They have grit. Anythin’ worth doin’ requires sacrifice.”

Prowl stared at the Polyhexian for a moment before nodding his helm.

“Have ya ever heard of a factory fan bass?” Jazz continued, still grinning with glee.

“When it’s hot.”

“Not like that. Here, give me yer comm, I’ll send ya a recordin’ of what I mean.”

Prowl gave the musician his personal comm. Ignoring the 645 messages on his official enforcer comm. He refused to think of how many messages had built up on his work terminal.

Jazz quickly set up the communication link. A data pack called “Why-didn’t-i-think-of-that_COOL.zip” was sent from his side, and the Praxian accepted it. Prowl confirmed several security details and opened the data in a quarantined section of his processor. He was being friendly, not foolish. He extracted the data from the compressed packet, revealing several video and audio files. He accessed a video file called “Neo-Polyhex_Factory-Fan-Bass.”

In the video, a steel worker mech with a blast mask held a rigged-up factory fan attached to a steel beam with metal ties that turned on with a roar. In one servo, he held a bass amplifier that he ran across the wire guard like a bow. Prowl’s optics widened as the manual labor caste mech was able to make music come from such an ordinary object. The low rhythmic music coming from the factory fan base was distorted and electronically seared, but it was, to Prowl’s surprise, pleasing to listen to. He wanted to hear more from this strange fantronic device.

To his disappointment, the video ended after a minute. He looked at the other files in the packet and furrowed his brow in confusion.

“What’s a ‘telesen’?” He asked, “And ‘CR-TV Drums?”

“Watch and find out.”

Prowl opened the other files and watched mechs and femmes from different backgrounds make music from miscellaneous mass-produced electronics. All of it was bizarre and scorched with an electronic buzz. There was a mech with barcodes and a scanner that made it chirp and sing like a cybird .

“Pretty cool, right?” Jazz grinned at Prowl’s shocked face.

“I have gazed upon madness.”

The Polyhexian snorted at the dramatic line.

“It’s a TV. He made a drum out of a TV.” Prowl pressed.

“Sure, functionally, that’s a TV. But someone had an idea and imbued some soul into it. Made it into somethin’ more. An experience .”

Prowl felt that Jazz was not talking about rigged-up factory instruments.

“So, how does it feel ta be part of the madness?” The musician teased.

“What do you mean?

“Ya just played music fer the first time in yer life, Prowl.”

“I…” Prowl stopped. 

Jazz was right. He had made music. Granted, the music was rough and untrained. But the math and logic behind it, the sequencing and careful selection of notes, the constraints that facilitated an intoxicating experience, reminded the Praxian achingly of playing strategy games against his brother and ‘Cade. Of leading tactical operations with his tac net on full power, ordeing the chaos of the world into logical data points and statements.

“It is...pleasant.” 

The Polyhexian grinned at the admission, “I gotta make tracks ta a gig in a sec, but let me teach ya a real quick song ya can do with yer finger joints.”

Later, when Prowl made it home to his hab suite, he took a quick solvent shower, refueled, and ran through plans for the coming orns.

Before he went to his berth to recharge, he paused at the doorway of his room. Tentatively, he lifted his servo and rapped the song Jazz had taught him on the wall.

Prowl smiled.

Chapter Text

Over the next couple orns, D-16 settled into a new routine: work, fuel, recharge, wake up to a dead mech looming over his berth, scream, fall on the floor, repeat.

“Did you take a right turn or a left this time?” D-16 groaned, picking himself up.

“Right,” Optimus sighed.

“Maybe if you leave before the sun rises?”

“D-16,” Optimus spoke with a long-suffering look, “I do not think the direction, time of departure, or any other extenuating circumstance we have tested will change the outcome: I travel a certain distance, my vision whites out, and I reappear in your general vicinity.” 

“We can’t give up, though. We have to get you out somehow.”

The prime hummed, “I’m not suggesting we cease looking for a solution. But a temporary reprieve may be in order.”

Before D-16 could reply, RM-4 stumbled past on his way to the dispenser.

“Yay,” the mini miner yawned, slowly pumping a fist in the air, “ghost is back.”

RM-4 clunked his helm against the dispenser and blindly groped for a glass.

“I think I’m gettin’ used to your yelling,” he murmured, snagging a cup, “Barely woke me up this time.”

“It still wakes me up,” SK-37 grumbled a few berths over, pushing herself up.

D-16 winced, “Sorry.”

“No problem,” the minibot bubbled into his energon. 

A-24 was still deep in recharge.

D-16 cracked a component in his neck cabling and picked up several tools hanging by his berth.

“I don’t want to impose,” Optimus spoke again, making D-16 pause in his morning routine, “but may I accompany you on your shift?”

The miner briefly thought it over before giving a nod, “I don’t mind you coming down with us, Optimus.” He ignored SK-37 shooting him a dark look for that statement. She minded a great deal.

 “Fair warning: It’s nothing glamorous. I would hate to upset thy sensibilities with our meager lot and toil,” he teased.

Optimus nearly rolled his optics, “Thanks for keeping my ‘sensibilities’ in mind. Since my untimely demise, my wires have been frayed.”

“Yes, I can see them sparking through that hole in your chest.”

RM-4 rocketed up to the taller mech, “He has a hole in his chest!? I’m so sorry you had to suffer through that,” the minibot consoled the wall.

“Rem, he’s to your right.”

“Oh!” He turned to face a bemused Optimus, only coming up to the ghostly Prime’s lower torso, “Am I facing the right way? It’s kinda hard to tell since you're the only one who can see him, Dee.”

“Yes, you’re facing the right way.”

A sharp whistle stopped RM-4 mid-consolation.

“That would be the work whistle,” A-24 rumbled, heaving his frame off his berth, “Shall we visit that mech?”

Tanks topped off for the orn and tools equipped, the miners and one dead prime trooped out of the hovel. They left the residential district of the mine and trekked up a couple layers before arriving at the lift that would take them down to the red levels. Several managers stood to the side with datapads, handing out assignments to the units coming in while night-cycle-shift miners lumbered out of the lift and headed towards their humble habsuites for some well-earned rest.

A red-level miner from a different unit came up to one of the managers, a large truckformer mech with dark navy plating trimmed with golden paint. The manager’s removable tracker beeped on his hip plating. 

The miner tossed a couple shanix into a bucket by the other mech’s pedes. The manager tapped a couple things into his datapad and gave the miner his assignment for that shift. 

“Despicable,” Optimus frowned.

D-16 spoke softly to avoid unwanted attention, “What do you mean?”

“That was a bribe, wasn’t it?”

“If you want a better assignment and to meet your production quota faster, you put a couple shanix in the bribe bucket and the manager will arrange it,” D-16 patiently explained like he was talking to a new build. 

“You are paid according to your production rate?”

“Paid? Most of us are indentured servants. The mine owns us until we fulfill our production quota: the price to bring us online and into Tarn.”

“How long have you been paying this ‘production quota’?”

“They told me seven vorns but I’ve been here longer. Most of my life in fact.”

“They have ensnared you and enslaved you.” Optimus murmured quietly, blazing optics tracking another miner tossing shanix into a bucket.

“I…I chose to be here.” He defended, not wanting to appear helpless to the prime, “It’s possible to fulfill the quota, other miners have done it. A-24 is getting out of here in a couple orns, actually.” 

The younger mech felt pathetic enough with his station. No need for a mech leagues above him in status, even in death, to confirm the truth D-16 hid away in his spark.

The unit in front of D-16’s finally moved on to the lift. 

“A-24,” the manager cooly acknowledged the older miner, “Got enough luck for a round of dice tonight? Haven’t seen you since you scored big last time.”

“Morning, Radon. Find that wire, yet?” A-24 replied with equally cold steel in his voice.

The manager let out a snort, stabbing at his datapad, “How about you look for it yourself? I’m sure it’ll pop up a second time under your watch.” He flipped the datapad around and shoved it in A-24’s faceplates. 

The older miner had been assigned the section right by the production shaft.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure your boss and the regional inspector sees it too,” A-24 growled, shoving the datapad out of his face. He slammed a couple shanix in the bucket, “I have a feeling you’ll need those pretty soon.”

D-16 and the rest of his unit glanced nervously between the two mechs as they glared each other down. 

Radon broke the stalemate with gritted dentae and stabbed at his datapad again. He distributed the rest of the assignments to D-16’s unit and summarily dismissed them. 

They boarded the lift, A-24 muttering darkly under his breath. Before the lift’s doors closed, Optimus looked back in the direction of the manager.

“What a piece of junk,” the dead prime shook his helm.

“Told you it wasn’t glamorous,” D-16 leaned back against the lift’s guard rail’s and closed his optics for a quick rest. 

The gates closed and the lift shuddered down the mine’s dark depths.

Once they arrived to T-18, they all split up to their assigned sections. Optimus stayed by D-16’s side.

“What is it that you mine down here, specifically?” The prime asked the miner as they walked down a side tunnel.

“Energon, but we occasionally get deposits of copper and gold.”

“So the managers give the richer areas to those who pay the bribe? Allowing the bribee to expedite completing their ‘production quota’?”

“Yep. Meeting the ornly output counts towards the production quota. But if you can mine an excess amount or higher grade materials, that counts more. Some things increase how much you owe, like if you have to go to the medbay for an injury. Since A-24 ticked that manager off though, we’re headed to an almost dry section.”

“I can help.”

“With what? You're axe? Mining raw energon isn’t a smash and grab job. You’ll blow yourself up if you try that.”

“I’m certain I am not in any danger and I am familiar with energon mining operations, but thank you for the concern,” Optimus smiled, or at least, D-16 thought he was trying to smile behind the battle mask, “No, what I meant was that I could track down the energy signatures of the vein deposits.” 

“Not sure you will find much. The surveyors come down often to update their models with mobile laser scan stations. You’ll see some surveyors come down at the end of our shift and walk around with the MLS’s for overbreak and underbreak analysis. Whatever is down here, they’ve already mapped it out.”

The tracks ahead branched off into several different tunnels. The miner walked over to a terminal manned by an operator and gave his assignment details. The operator adjusted a couple dials and gestured D-16 towards a minecart. Lifting himself into the cart, the miner settled down for the ride.

With a creaky groan, the cart lurched down the diagonal access tunnel.

“This is good!” D-16 called back up after passing several branching passages.

The cart jolted into place.

Hopping off the cart, the miner and prime walked down the length of the cavern they had arrived at before pausing in front of a wall marked with different notations in yellow paint.

“See? The surveyors mark it all up so we know where to drill.”

“Having briefly observed your manager’s work ethic, forgive me for being skeptical of the quality of these surveyors’ work. Especially since there is a deposit right there.” Optimus pointed at a blank spot on the wall.

“The markings aren’t just for extraction purposes. It’s also to tell you where not to mine in order to preserve structural integrity.” Regardless, D-16 hefted his drill, “If a tunnel collapses on me for a third time this vorn, I’m coming for you.”

“Trust me. If I am wrong, you are welcome to seek retribution.”

“Can’t wait.”

With a deafening whrrr! , D-16 powered on his drill and got to work.

Energon was a volatile material. The name explains itself: stored energy. To avoid causing an explosion, it was best practice to chisel around the ore. Creating a protective natural casing. Later, the energon would be picked up through a chemical reaction from a solution in the leach pads and leave behind the natural casing. Keeping the miners and other personnel safe while still being able to access that precious, volatile blue.

After a breem of careful drilling, D-16 set aside his tools and started to pull out a warm blackened mass of chipped rock and twisted metal. A blue light pulsed innocently inside like a sparkbeat. Extracting the mass the entire way revealed cerulean tetragonal crystals.

D-16 marveled at the energon, impressed. The miner looked away from the crystal to see a confused Optimus.

“I am sorry, D-16. I do not understand how I got it wrong but it appears your surveyors were correct in their estimates.”

“What do you mean?”

“That is not energon.”

“Not energon?” D-16 gave the dead prime a judgemental look. “Of course it is. I have mined this material my entire functioning. It is energon.”

“Hmmm, curious. In my experience, energon is not blue and yet if you insist then I must concede in part. Is it a variant class like Tox-En or Elec-Trol?”

“What? No . What color do you think it’s supposed to be? Purple?”

“Pink.”

“Pink!?”

“Sometimes a multi-colored white.”

“Multi-colored white,” D-16 echoed in disbelief, “Why would it be white? Or pink? All energon is blue. Low-grade, jet-grade, medical-grade, any grade is blue! It only changes color if it’s contaminated or if you put certain supplements in it.”

Now Optimus was giving D-16 a disbelieving look, “Then what color is the internal energon dripping from my frame?”

“That pink liquid is energon?”

“What did you assume it was?”

“Ectoplasm?”

Optimus paused for a moment before responding, “I feel we are getting off track. You believe energon is blue and hold such a specimen. I believe energon to be pink or even white with my evidence on full display,” the prime self consciously raised a servo to cover part of the cracked cavity in his chest. 

“If you lived a long time ago, maybe the color of energon has changed over time?” D-16 weakly suggested.

The miner knew the suggestion was flimsy at best. But he couldn’t think of a better explanation.

Finally, the prime spoke, “I do not think that is the case unless a significant event has altered its base makeup. This warrants further research but we are pressed for time and have limited resources, even with my ability to sense the deposits. You have the most experience between the two of us. It would be wise for you to decide the next steps of the operation.”

“You think I can fill up today’s quota in this dry spell?”

“I’m not leaving you to do this alone.”

D-16 took a step back and hummed to himself in thought, “I’ll keep drilling and excavating. Here, hold this,” he gave the energon sample over to the prime, who held the specimen in one blue servo. “You can touch the energon, that’s good. When I extract the ore, your job will be to move it over to the cart. When I finish a section, you help refine the search by telling me what you can sense. Understand?”

“I understand.”

For the next couple hours, the two mechs worked in tandem at their respective tasks. D-16 mined with expertise honed over vorns of servitude while the prime moved heavy materials around without any complaining. The ghost even hummed quietly to himself as he loaded the cart.

Attempted murder aside, it was hard not to like or at least respect Optimus, D-16 decided.

The prime didn’t know much about how the world worked. Or rather, how D-16’s world worked. Either way, despite not knowing much about basic concepts like the color of energon, Optimus was kind and helpful. Not after the ingratiating manner of managers who smiled while their optics were as hard as flint. Who cowered before superiors and cracked the whip on subordinates. It was a genuine desire to help and a gladness to be of service. The miner frequently forgot himself and freely teased and talked to Optimus like he was just another mech and not the avatar closest to Primus, to being a god . Even stranger, the prime did not seem to mind the informality. 

Under Optimus’s direction, D-16 was able to extract more energon fragments that had been left undisclosed by the wall markings without compromising the cavern’s stability. However, it was barely enough to fill up the cart and there were no more markings left to guide the miner. After placing the last deposit in the cart and surveying the cavern in silence, the prime mutely shook his head and confirmed that there was nothing left in the walls of rock and twisted metal.

“It’s not enough for quota, but it’s more than what I was expecting,” D-16 wiped some dirt off his faceplates, “Time for a break. We can take the cart up afterwards, record the amount, and get a new assignment.”

“Shall we meet up with your friends?” Optimus asked.

The miner settled himself on a rock slab with a sigh and pulled out energon cubes from his subspace, “No. I’m going to refuel here. I appreciate their company, don’t misunderstand me. RM-4 is bright and cheerful. A-24 is full of spit and acetic acid. SK-37 has a dry sense of humor. Sorry you’ve only seen her cold shoulder.”

“It is understandable and I do not hold it against her. She is doing what she thinks is best to protect herself. In time, I hope she will open up.”

“If we don’t get you out of here before then.”

“When we all get out of here.”

D-16 paused in drinking his cube and glanced at the prime who was looking at him with determined bright optics.

The miner didn’t know what to say to that declaration. Did the prime seriously think they would all get out of here? Alive? Why? Just because he decreed it so? The prime had been around for less than a decaorn. Did he expect them to be able to meet the production quota faster just because he could sense more energon than what the scanners picked up? Or more radically, that untrained miners could fight their way out? The prime was evidently no stranger to violence with his injuries. Perhaps he fancied they could sneak out the backdoor when the higher ups weren’t looking and leg it to a better life.

How ludicrous . How stupid . How prideful could a mech be to think they could change fate when the cards had been dealt and the final bets placed.

It was all so…hopeful.

“You really are an optimist,” D-16 murmured into his cube.

“I don’t see why I must be the only one,” Optimus gently prodded.

The miner forcefully cleared his throat “Do you drink energon? You can touch, move, and manipulate objects. What energy is being exchanged to allow you to do that?”

Optimus, mercifully, went with the change of subject and did not press further.

“To be honest,” the prime began, “I am unsure. My readouts are fragmented and corrupted. I cannot rely on them for an accurate account of my being. Additionally, my fuel tanks are always empty. I am surprised that my frame is still bleeding out energon. It does lend a certain…macabre aesthetic, but there is nothing left in my fuel lines or tanks to explain it.”

“Here, try this,” D-16 offered one of his rations, “You can taste all of the treatment chemicals in it, but it’s better than empty.”

Optimus reached out for the proffered good but his blunt blue fingers passed through like it was a hologram.

“Strange. Let me try something,” setting aside the fuel, the smaller mech bent down and picked up several loose pebbles from the ground.

Taking careful aim, he flicked the projectile at his target.

Ting! The sediment bounced off Optimus’s arm plating.

“What exactly are you testing?” Optimus asked, mildly amused as several more rocks ricocheted off different parts of his frame.

“Your corporeality.”

Another rock slinged through the air and scored straight through the cavity in Optimus’s chests. It phased through the rest of the spark ghost and skittered across the ground behind the prime.

“Most of those rocks were affected by your presence and only that one thus far went straight through you,” the miner walked over to the rock in question and picked it up under Optimus’s contemplative gaze, “There are some things you can manipulate and some things you can’t. But what dictates the limits? Is there a connection between this and who can or cannot see you?”

“It may be that the composition of some of these materials are compatible with phantom spark signatures while the rest are not? This compatibility could explain why some mechs can see me, considering that I have no control over it.” Optimus postulated.

D-16 picked up one of the test rocks that had bounced off the ghost, “From the naked optic alone, I can’t tell a difference between the two materials. We don’t have access to more specialized equipment to take a closer look either. We’ll have to go off empirical evidence until we can obtain a means of testing this further,” he subspaced the two rocks.

The miner jolted back as a rock rebounded off his arm. He quickly looked over to where the guilty party held several more pebbles.

“What was that for?”

“Testing a hypothesis.”

D-16 had the distinct impression that the prime was teasing him.

The prime continued, “We have established that certain materials can be manipulated by you and I. Furthermore, while you cannot touch me, that does not exclude a third party you can touch from interacting with my frame or vice versa. I can move the raw energon crystals you mined but I phase through the processed energon cube you offered me. Hmmm, curiouser and curiouser.”

“Perhaps it’s conditional on who initiates contact? If I try to punch you, I can’t affect you. But what happens if you initiate contact? It’s probably going to be the same result but it’s best to cover all variables.”

“It would not hurt to try,” he conceded.

“Alright, try to grab my servo,” the miner held out his servo.

The prime went to grasp the offered apendage, but just as hypothesized he phased straight through. Optimus narrowed his optics in a soft frown and began to retract his servo. Right before they completely disconnected, D-16 let out a sharp hiss of pain and ripped his servo the rest of the way back to himself.

“Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

The red-level miner rubbed his servo with a scowl, “I don’t know. For a klik, I just felt this sharp pain. That didn’t happen before.”

“For your safety, let us not repeat this exercise.”

The miner nodded.

D-16 finished refueling in silence. Both he and Optimus were deep in thought over what could explain the idiosyncratic corporeality of the ghost.

Break over, the duo made their way to the filled cart. The miner hopped onto the edge of the cart’s bumper plate and signaled to the operator to retrieve them. With a creaky groan, the cart began the trek back up the incline. When they reached the operator’s terminal, the cart load was logged and D-16 was clear to push the cart the rest of the way to the production shaft.

“Finished up my section,” D-16 commed over the low-frequency radio channel, “Anyone need help with theirs? Over.”

“I’m good! Thanks.” RM-4 chirped over the line.

“I could use a double helping of engex paired with a vacation to Altihex. Over.” Sk-37 quipped.

“Alright, that's two bottles of contraband and a vacation. Anything else?” D-16 listed off.

“Oh! Can I get some rust sticks and one of those tiny umbrellas?” RM-4 barely suppressed a laugh as he gave his request.

“Unfortunately, we are out of tiny umbrellas.”

“Awww.”

“What about you, A-24?” D-16 asked.

There was no reply.

“A-24? Do you need any help?” RM-4 chimed in.

Crackled white noise filled the channel but there was no response.

“A-24, what is your status? Over.” SK-37 asked sternly.

Optimus gave a questioning look but D-16 could only shrug in answer. He had stopped pushing the cart while waiting for the ornery older mech to respond.

A haunting, wailing alarm filled the mine and chilled D-16’s energon lines.

“Cease all operations. All units are to report to their superiors,” a voice crackled over the emergency channel. “There has been a casualty on site. I repeat, all units are to cease operations and report to their superiors.”

“A death?” Optimus asked.

“It would seem so,” D-16 frowned. 

He abandoned the cart and trekked his way to the lift.  One rickety ride later, he joined SK-37 and RM-4 in the receiving section he had been in earlier that shift, waiting for A-24 or for their manager, Radon, to show up amongst the milling crowd of other units.

RM-4 was fidgeting and glancing nervously towards the lift every couple klicks. D-16 himself shifted his weight and kept his optics trained on the lift as well. He shifted more restlessly as the space between the lift doors opening increased and fewer mechs left. SK-37 had gone over to another unit to ask for details. Optimus kept a solemn sigil.

“Do you think A-24 is ok? I’m worried for him,” RM-4 picked at some dirt caught in the seams of his servo.

“I’m sure everything will be alright. Don’t worry about it. He’s getting out of here in a couple orns, remember?” D-16 reassured the smaller mech.

RM-4 was not comforted. 

SK-37 returned to their little group with a dark look.

“Someone was found dead at the bottom of the production shaft. They don’t know who yet,” she said.

“A-24 was stationed by the shaft today. Maybe he saw something?” RM-4 suggested.

“That’s possible. Or they need his help with turning off some of the equipment so they can get to the body,” SK-37 added on.

“We could go check on him. Make sure everything is ok.” The mini miner rocked on his pedes.

“If we go down to check on him, we risk a write up for disobeying orders and going against safety measures. There could be more happening than just a casualty.” D-16 cautioned.

“What’s a demerit in the face of helping someone else?” The minibot refuted.

“I can go,” the prime interjected before the conversation heated up.

“Are you sure? You don’t have to go, we can wait out for news,” D-16 looked to the side at the ghost.

“I have a production quota that’ll take me at least sixty to eighty vorns to pay back. A write up isn’t going to do much to me. Besides, I’d do it for you.” The minibot insisted.

“Oh, sorry, Rem. I was talking to Optimus. He offered to go and check on A-24.” D-16 pointed to where the ghost stood.

“Really!?” RM-4’s remaining optic shone as bright as the smile that accompanied it, “Thank you so much!”

SK-37 quickly took a couple steps away from where D-16 had pointed with a slightly unnerved look, “While the ‘ghost’ does that, I say we head back to our hab suite. Radon hasn’t shown up and most of the other units are leaving for theirs.”

D-16 stretched out a couple stiff cables and components in his arms, “Sounds good to me. Can’t do much else until we get the all clear anyways.”

“I will return shortly with an update on A-24’s status,” Optimus said.

“Thank you.”

The three miners parted from the company of the prime and went down the well-worn track to their hab suite. A somber silence hung around them. RM-4 tried to break it a couple times with light subjects, like how the rose quartz were doing, but eventually he would trail off and look at the ground with a frown. The femme of the group kept her helm ducked down as well. 

What’s one more name? D-16 kicked a rock out of his way. They all leave eventually.

As they got closer to the apartment, SK-37 lifted her helm and started to say something before abruptly stopping.

“Who left the door open?” She asked with narrowed optics.

D-16 and RM-4 looked towards the entrance of their home, they were still a ways off.

Calling the door open was a generous way of saying that it had fallen off its track again. There were glimpses of movement as someone inside hastily tried to put it back up. 

“A better question is who let themselves in,” D-16 stalked forward.

By the time the three miners got to the apartment, the door had been put back in place.

“I’m going to kick the door in,” D-16 whispered. “That should give us an edge. If it’s just a weekday miner, it’ll be fine. We can laugh it off. If it’s a thief…well, what’s a little justice among friends?”

SK-37 and RM-4 fell in behind D-16 without needing further convincing. Any justice to be found in the mines was to be wrought by their own servos.

Silently counting down to himself, the grey miner sprang into action.

Grounding one pede, he drove the other into the door and sent it flying forward.

The high speed slab of metal flattened a mech on the other side with a yelp as the miners stormed the apartment.

As quickly as they entered, the miners grounded to a halt in shock.

Five or so mechs were spread throughout the apartment, in various stages of ransacking the place. Loose panels had been ripped up, personal items haphazardly tossed around, and one mech, a yellow-level miner, dropped an entire berth in surprise at the violent entrance.

The sight that had stalled the miners though, was in the corner where A-24’s berth was located. Two mechs, one with manager decals, were crouched down by the spot the older miner stashed his shanix. In their servos, the golden coins gleamed under the lights.

“Radon!” D-16 spat out.

Radon slowly stood up, “That’s my name. What do you want? Can’t you see we’re collecting the belongings of a dead mech for processing? Might be enough to recoup the mine’s loss and save you guys from steeper quota assignments.”

“How do you know it was A-24 who died?” SK-37 demanded, stepping forward.

Several of the intruders tensed at the movement.

“I’m a manager. I am privy to higher up emergency channels.” Radon’s servo tightened around the shanix.

“Where’s your tracker, Radon?” D-16 asked quietly.

The truckformer’s unoccupied servo aborted a move towards the empty spot his tracker usually resided. There were fresh scratches in the metal plating.

“Guess I dropped it.” Radon drawled, “Going to report me?”

Silence reigned as each side sized each other up. D-16 flared his plating in warning and brought up his fists.

As if a signal went off, the two sides rushed forward with bloody cries. 

D-16 crashed into a mech with a scream of metal and began to grapple the intruder on the floor. One of the other intruders scrambled over the berths and got a couple sharp kicks into the grey miner, forcing D-16 to let go of his opponent with a yell as a strut snapped under a particularly vicious blow. He brought up his arms to protect his helm as the two opponents ganged up on him.

I gotta get up, I gotta get up , If I stay down I’m dead, D-16’s thoughts raced. His frame felt like it was burning up and there was energon smeared on his face. 

He gritted his dentae and shoved the pain notifications down. He brought up a pede and struck out at one of his attacker’s knee joints. 

Due to the tight quarters, the attacker stumbled into his compatriot with a grunt.

This brief reprieve allowed for D-16 to leap back up, legs shaking and his vision swimming. 

He was still trapped.

One of the attackers rushed him and got past D-16’s unsteady guard. Pinning the younger mech to the wall to allow for the other attacker to get in a strike to his helm. The impact force snapped D-16’s helm to an unnatural angle. 

Maybe I should have stayed down, he thought blearily, feeling strangely disconnected from his own frame.

The grey miner was thrown down to the floor. His helm bounced off the edge of a berth, whiting out his vision for a moment that stretched into a million seconds before rapidly condensing back into one.

He detachedly watched from his sprawled position, propped up by the wall, as his attackers abandoned him to help the yellow-level miner fend off the minibot fiend. He distantly saw a mech that looked like Radon get thrown by SK-37 into the ancient energon dispenser. A spray of bloodied shanix glittered in an arc through the air.

Is this how it ends?

Everything felt so low. The sounds of yelling and things being broken were dull, drowned out by D-16’s ragged invents.

In the corner of his optic, he saw a burst of dust and dirt shudder down from the ceiling. A muted thump echoed out from deep in the downed miner’s chest plates.

BOOM!

The walls of the apartment ripped open in a shockwave blazing with blue fire. 

A vacuum of air laid siege upon D-16, immobilizing him under immense pressure. A sharp bite seized his frame and dragged him towards the maw of death before a supersonic wind sliced the miner and hurled him down where once was solid rock. 

As he fell into the darkness of the mines, pockets of explosions blinded him and illuminated the charred forms of other mechs falling down with him.

D-16 thought he was screaming but the sounds of destruction were so loud, he couldn’t be sure.

He crashed into rusted water, the shock fanning the electrical flames surging up his lines. He tried to move his limbs as he sank below the waterline but they felt heavy and dull. Another explosion surged through him, shaking his internal systems and making his sensors shriek as he was propelled further into the underground aquifer. His centroid sensors could no longer tell what was up and what was down as the murky, rusting water churned and dragged him into its depths.

D-16 scrambled for purchase on the sides of the walls he could feel closing in around him. Scraping his servos on jagged metal and losing shredded plating to the currents.

His turbulent journey was halted by a blocked entryway. This allowed for no rest however as more shockwaves surged through the water. The impact force grabbed a hold of  him and rammed the helpless miner into the block over and over until either his frame gave out or the barricade did.

The block finally shifted and the miner was sent hurtling through the air of an open cavern. 

The rusted liquid surged out of the opening and pooled into a central body before meekly slipping away into the rest of the cave system.

D-16 dragged himself far enough on to a platform of metal to no longer be in danger of being dragged away and collapsed. 

For a long time he laid there, silent and half-submerged. Blue energon flowed from his wounds and mixed into the rust water, mingling with tears he was unaware of shedding. 

With shaky servos, he dragged his frame out of the pool. For the following hours, or perhaps it was for a lifetime, he clawed down the passages of his tomb. Following a pathway that mirrored the rusted river he had ended up in.

He was afraid that if he stopped moving, he would never move again.

He only slowed down once when he spied the blackened form of a mech bobbing by like innocent drifting discard. When his optics threatened to look upon the mech’s face, D-16 ducked his helm down, refusing to look any longer and focused on the ground he was clawing up instead.

Somehow, there was an end. 

In the time to come, D-16 could not remember how he got to the end. 

He did remember, as he shakily got to his pedes and squinted at the bright light, talking to Char a lifetime ago while constructing leachpads. 

According to the older mech, the Imperial Mine of Tarn was once a fortress during the titan wars. If the fortress was a living mech, it was no longer remembered by its denizens. 

There were many ways in and out of the fort, crafted under the direction of a paranoid warmonger. When the fort was converted and expanded into a mine following the violent conclusion of the titan wars, many of those ways were sealed up to prevent indentured servants from disappearing in the night.

The destruction that had burned his life to stubble in a matter of seconds had also unsealed one of these exits it seemed.

Have I been brought to safe shores / on the bloody waves of bygone wars? D-16 stumbled the rest of the way out of the nightmare.

The river led to a beach of glass shards and emptied into a minor tributary of the Rust Sea. The acrid smell of smoke filled D-16’s nasal sensors. Dark ash coated the ground and choked the sky.

When his optics adjusted to the light, he jolted in shock at the figure kneeling on the beach a few meters away, cupping something in trembling blue servos.

“Optimus?” D-16 reached out a shaky servo.

The prime slowly looked up. Quietly, he revealed what he held in his servos:

A single, yellow wire.

“I’m so sorry, D-16,” the prime rasped, “I-I….I tried to stop it…but more kept appearing.”

D-16 collapsed to his knees.

There was a live wire afterall, he thought hysterically.

If D-16 turned his helm to the side, he could see the shattered remains of the mine. Blue flames carved into the landscape and soared in the air like a crackling funeral pyre.

The sun was setting. Despite it all, it was the most beautiful sunset D-16 had ever seen.

He buried his head in his servos and screamed.

All he could hear was static.

Chapter Text

The records clerk looked up at Prowl’s approach.

“Another batch so soon?” The mech asked.

Prowl silently placed the box of completed datapad reports at the clerk’s window.

His processor was swimming with dates, names, and extraneous data transcribed twenty different ways. Since returning, he had waged a vicious battle against the unrelenting tide of reports. For every report he finished, three more took its place. But Prowl had soldiered on and locked himself in his office, only emerging to bring physical copies to records. 

The clerk took the box and gave Prowl a datapad to sign. The detective chipped the datapad with his credentials and returned it to the other enforcer.

“Alright, I’ll start processing these,” the clerk said.

“I am also here for some reports I asked to be put on hold.”

“Let me check the request, and I’ll pull them out from the back. You requested two cases, right?”

“Yes.”

The clerk got up from his station at the counter and disappeared into the back. Prowl counted three security cameras pointed at him. A moment later, the other mech reappeared with a single datapad.

“Sorry, we only have the report for the public intoxication arrest made by Lieutenant Barricade.” The clerk handed the report to the detective.

“What happened to the GOR on Blindside? Has it not been submitted to the system yet?” Prowl asked as he scanned the intoxication report.

The clerk shook his head, “It’s gone.”

The detective's helm shot up, “Gone?”

“Not just the GOR, his entire file has been expunged. Deleted. Burned up,” the mech shrugged.

“On whose orders?”

“The criminal court judge. Granted,” the clerk leaned in closer, glancing at the security cameras, “this isn’t a normal expungement. Usually, we’d seal the records off from public view. No, these records have been completely wiped from the system. Blindside might as well not exist.”

“When was this done?”

“About a decaorn ago.”

That placed the dismissal of Blindside’s records close to when Barricade seized the GOR from Prowl. 

“Thank you for letting me know.”

“Anytime. Don’t forget to take a break, Prowl.”

The detective gave a mute nod and began his trek back to his office, report in servo and troubled thoughts in his processor.

Prowl flexed his servos as he walked. Working out stiff joints and idly popping components. The welds on his servos had healed, but now they ached from the sheer volume of data entries he had typed. The bright lights stabbed his optics and made his processor throb. He lifted his servo to his helm and winced at the heated metal. Even his tac net struggled with processing the onslaught of data.

A refueling notification pinged in his HUD. 

Prowl could keep going. He has worked himself to the quick before. But the thought of dragging himself to the dispensary while working off fumes and listening to his conscience questioning his life choices was unpleasant.

Decision made, the Praxian changed his route and headed to the communal break room.

He walked into the break room and immediately regretted the action.

“Hey, Prowl,” Barricade greeted with a smile by the energon dispenser.

It was too late to run. Prowl would have to face the grinning devil.

“Hello,” Prowl replied shortly, edging his way over to the dispenser.

The detective’s door wing sensors subtly angled around as he walked, keeping track of Barricade. He kept his gaze on the dispenser as he filled up a cube, hyper-aware of the darker Praxian’s presence a few feet away. 

Prowl was lucky: Barricade was only interested in mixing additives into his cube. The lieutenant would leave soon, and the Praxian could refuel in peace.

“Here’s your poison. I swear, your chemoreceptors need to be recalibrated.” The darker Praxian teased, offering a canister of magnesium bisglycinate.

Luck was dead. Its funeral was last week.

“Thank you, but I will take my energon plain,” the detective declined.

“Have you finally seen the light of Primus?” Barricade clutched a servo over his spark chamber, reeling back from Prowl, “I thought I would never see the orn. Someone, call the press! The High Priest! No, Sentinel Prime himself! It’s a miracle!”

“I did not realize you were a believer, Barricade,” Prowl commented wryly.

“I might just be after today,” Barricade cackled, “As a new convert, I declare this break room sacred ground. That means no datapads in here. Subspace that spawn of Unicron away!” He stabbed a finger imperiously at the datapad in Prowl’s servo.

Prowl begrudgingly put it away. 

Barricade chuckled as he calmed down from his spontaneous mirth and placed the canister in Prowl’s now empty servo, “Enjoy your poison and relax.”

The detective placed his cube on the counter and unceremoniously dumped the additive into the energon. 

Prowl had started taking the horrid mineral with his energon vorns ago to help soothe his overclocked processor and, most recently, concussion-induced helmaches, nothing more. There was no pleasure in it, just pragmatism.

“Have you received your reassignment yet?” Barricade asked, sipping at his energon.

The lieutenant was not looking at him, Prowl noted. A glance at the only other opened additive canister on the counter revealed chalcanthite flakes. Some of the sweet but slightly poisonous flakes had not completely dissolved in the darker Praxian’s energon as he continued to nurse his drink. There was tension built up in the other mech’s cabling as well.

He is upset , Prowl concluded, but about what?

The detective could be cordial for now. Reciprocating the friendly behavior would lower Barricade’s guard and keep Prowl in the higher-ranking enforcer’s good graces. He did not want to entertain a facsimile of peace. But, as his tac net helpfully reported, reestablishing an amicable work relationship with the lieutenant for now would be the most logical tactic.

Best to not torch the bridge yet. Who knows when I will need to cross it again, Prowl mused.

“Yes,” the detective confirmed, “they reassigned me to the Internal Affairs Bureau. I am to report to my new position in five orns.”

Barricade winced, “Ouch. They didn’t pull any punches with that.”

“You know how it is: no good deed goes unpunished,” Prowl smiled mirthlessly.

There was no love for the Internal Affairs Bureau within the force or the public. The IA was, in short, cops investigating cops. 

The enforcers saw the department as headhunters who had no sense of loyalty. Furthermore, there were mechs within and without the force who were willing to ruin an innocent life with a false accusation submitted to the bureau.

As far as the public was concerned, the IA were enforcers covering for enforcers. Ensuring that corrupt officers could continue to abuse their authority and exploit the system without repercussions. Considering that enforcers were given more power than a typical mech, it was a valid fear to have. One that was, sadly, proven correct all too often.

For the IA officers, it was a thankless job. The assignment required an enforcer to execute objective cases and have reasonable conclusions in the face of sycophants, detractors, and their own biases. 

On flimsi, this sounded like the perfect job for Prowl. Many considered him callous. He was known for his objectivity and cold logic. The assignment also allowed him to retire corrupt cops from the force and prevent more harm from being done.

But there was a wrinkle to this ideal position:

“I will be transferred to the 501st IA.”

Barricade gave a low whistle, “Make sure to send me a postcard.”

The 501st was on the southern border of Praxus. Right on the edge of the Lithium Planes where nothing happened and all sent there never come back.

The enforcer organization had effectively stripped all social and political power from Prowl and sent him to exile.

“I am not too opposed to the reassignment.”  Prowl finally murmured, door wings still angled to monitor the lieutenant’s movements, “It is an honorable job and one I am well adapted to perform. I do not intend to stay in IA long, but I will perform my duties to the highest standard while stationed there.”

“That’s the problem.”

“Excuse me?”

Barricade looked Prowl over with a baleful yellow optic, “You’re good at your job, Prowler. Always have been, and that’s the problem. You put yourself on the line for mechs who would grind you into dust without a second thought. They do things that hurt you without even knowing it. You fancy yourself a commander, but you’re a pawn like me.”

The detective drew himself up, rolling his pauldrons back and lifting his door wings into a sharp v as he faced the lieutenant.

“Be that as it may, someone has to do it,” Prowl stated sternly, “If not me, who? I am a pawn if I allow others to dictate my actions. I may be in an unfavorable situation, but my decisions are my own.”

He paused, then continued, softer, “You are only a pawn by your own actions, ‘Cade. There is no such thing as ‘just following orders.’ We will not always make the right call, but we can choose to get up and try again.”

Barricade downed the rest of his energon and popped the glass out of existence, “That’s what’s going to get you killed one day: you don’t stay down.”

The lieutenant pulled out a couple shanix from his subspace and tossed them in a jar by a collection of energon goodies and other treats like rock candy. He took two rust sticks and offered one to the other enforcer.

Prowl wanted to break the rust stick over Barricade's helm.

Instead, he accepted the rust stick with a word of thanks and made a hasty retreat out of the break room.

Prowl let out a small sigh of relief when he entered the safety of his office. 

“I can see the desk now!” His conscience chirped from where he lounged on the visitor’s chair. “Where’d ya get the rust stick?”

“Barricade,” Prowl threw the treat into a disposal bin.

“Poor rust stick. A victim of circumstance caught between the powers that be,” the glitch bowed his head in mourning.

Prowl took out the intoxication report from his subspace and placed it on his desk. 

The Polyhexian inspected it with a curious optic.

“Just one? Guess Barricade already torched the other file, huh,” the glitch mused. “Mech’s dreamin’ if he thinks that’s enough to cover tracks.”

“I do not believe he was attempting a cover-up. More likely that he did it on orders from the Chargers, but he is not the only piece in play. As a lieutenant, he only has the power to start the expungement. Someone else needs to carry out the rest of the process.”

“Mech isn’t playin’ by the rules, Prowl.”

“True. Additionally, the more mechs involved, the higher the risk. However, if the different parts of the operation are isolated, Barricade can use another ghost plate to execute the wipe with mitigated liability. Mechs working together without even knowing it. And if an asset is compromised, the other parts of the operation can continue working. I hypothesize that another accomplice was engaged in this unorthodox expungement: a records clerk or even the crime court judge.”

“Blackmailed, bribed, or agents themselves,” his conscience nodded, “He’s got a laundry service fer cleanin’ up criminal files. But is he playin’ ball fer just the Chargers or fer multiple teams?”

“Multiple parties. This intoxication arrest gives a potential lead to a second group. The bar the detainees were arrested near is a known front for the Carnelian Mafia, or, as they are publicly known, the Noble House of Chord.”

“Ah, old-time thugs with a fancy title. Probably used the arrest to cover an exchange.” The glitch tilted his helm to the side. A calculating gleam lit up his broken visor.

“My conclusion as well. The Carnelians would be hard to investigate: their funds are filtered through four hundred different banks, and the government does not acknowledge their existence. Most Praxians think the mafia only exists in polities like Crystal City.”

“Ya know this from yer time in… BlackOps? SpecOps? TacOps?” The other mech gave up and muttered, “Why are there so many different names fer the same thing?”

Prowl scrutinized the glitch, “You claim to be my conscience, yet you know very little of my life.”

His conscience shrugged, “I wasn’t around at the time. Missed a lot of events.”

Prowl frowned. A small pain stabbed his spark at the implication.

The other mech backpedaled, “Sorry Prowler, I didn’t mean it like that. Shoulda been more careful with my glyphs.”

“It is fine,” the enforcer quickly dismissed, “Nothing I have not heard before, and it is not…inaccurate,” he cleared his intake, “As I was saying, the Carnelian’s presence gives us another entity that Barricade has dealings with that we can begin surveying.”

“It’s a good start to a case against him,” the other mech hummed, “Not even officially an IA officer yet, and yer already investigatin’ corrupt cops,” the glitch's mien grew somber, “Ya understand the risks of this, Prowler? I’m not sayin’ ya shouldn’t do this. By all rights, it’s the right thing ta do. But this ain’t an isolated case ya can leave at the end of yer shift. Once ya start whistleblowin’ on Barricade, and whatever corrupt cops ya come across in this crusade, yer life is forfeit.”

Prowl straightened himself up, lifting his chin with a determined look, “I understand. There will be no turning back. It is a necessary sacrifice.”

“You’ll be put into witness protection if these dirty cops don’t end ya before that,” his conscience looked to the side at a holostill on the desk, “Are ya prepared ta never see yer brother again? Ta disappear from his life without explanation?”

The holostill had been excavated from beneath a column of datapads and placed by Prowl’s primary work terminal. Two young Praxians looked at the viewer in polished paint and dressed in ceremonial decals.  The younger version of Smokescreen was grinning and had an arm slung around his younger brother. Prowl in the holostill valiantly tried to maintain a perfect parade rest under the assault of brotherly affection.

“He...,” the Praxian swallowed and tried again, squaring his pauldrons, “Smokescreen understands the risks of the job. He will be upset at first, but he will move on.”

“I wasn’t askin’ about how Smokescreen feels, and ya can’t speak for him.”

Before Prowl could answer, his enforcer comms crackled to life.

“10-200 2598 Lithic Plaza for a 10-11. 10-67 Shatter Star Security at 2100 hours. A field unit has secured the area and is on 10-12 for CID. 10-45, over.”  The dispatcher rattled off. Enforcers are needed at 2598 Lithic Plaza for an alarm. The call was placed by Shatter Star Security at 2100 hours. A field unit has secured the area and is on standby for personnel from the crime investigation division. All units within range, please report, message finished. 

There was a chorus of 10-10s, Negative , 10-6As, Busy Unless Urgent , and 10-85s, Delayed Due to Paperwork , over the network.

“10-4, Praxus-23. 910, 10-77 Signal 30. Over,” Prowl responded. Message received, Praxus-23 (Dispatch). I can handle this assignment. The estimated time of arrival is thirty minutes out. Message finished.

“10-4,” dispatch, called ‘Praxus-23’ over comms and ‘lazy idiots’ off comms, confirmed, “10-6B to channel 212-501, over.” Message received. Change over to channel 212-501. Message finished.

“Roger. Wilco. Over.”

“10-4, out.” Message received, conversation finished, this channel is clear for others to use.

“Ya use 900 series codes alongside regional 10 codes on a secure internal comm? How in the name of Primus is that more effective and secure than just sayin’ it plain?" The glitch shook his helm as he got up from the chair and did a quick stretch.

“It is not, but it is regulation,” Prowl conceded as he dutifully switched to the designated channel.

He paused to listen to the channel for a moment. 

Once he was sure it was clear of any chatter, he said, “Praxus-23, Praxus-23, this is Dragon, come in. Over.”

“Dragon, this is Praxus-23. Go ahead, over.”

“Radio check. Over.”

“Read you 5-by-5, Dragon. Over.”

“En route. Over.”

“Roger. Over.”

“If it’s over, then let’s go already!” the glitch burst out. 

Making sure to lock the door to the office behind him, Prowl left the precinct and transformed into his alt mode. With a roar of his engines, he sped off.

Lithic Plaza was a partial misnomer. Typically, plazas were open to the public and had cafes, shops, or a public works building like a performance venue. While Lithic Plaza did have a wide open, paved, central area decorated with cultivated crystals and featured a carved lithic sandstone monolith in the center of the courtyard, it catered to high enterprise corporations. High-rise buildings, skyscrapers, and conference facilities populated the area. 

Prowl arrived at the plaza, transformed back into root mode, and walked towards an officer standing in front of one of the high-rise buildings. The young patrol enforcer waved at him.

“10-23, over,” Prowl said over comms. Arrived at scene.

If Prowl’s conscience was still present, he was sure the glitch would have given the detective a look for the continual use of 10 codes.

“Nice to meetcha, I’m Officer Mercury,” the field unit greeted Prowl.

“Detective Prowl,” they shook servos, “What can you tell me about the situation?”

Mercury gestured at the high-rise building, “This building is owned by the Copperport Corporation, who contracted with Shatter Star Security. At 2100 hours, a silent alarm was tripped on the upper floors. A Shatter Star operator tried to contact night security to determine it wasn’t false, but no one answered. So we got the call. I was told to secure the area and wait.  It’s basically a welfare check,” he finished with a shrug.

Prowl hummed softly to himself as he looked at the building. His tac net lightly parsed through the information and proposed several strategies.

“Not counting the front entrance, is there a side entry like an employee’s door?”

“Yeah, there’s one to the east, west, and an emergency exit at the back.”

Prowl noted the offices and conference facilities on each side. He brought up a map of the area on his HUD, noting the alleys and roads nearby.

“I will see if I can get an answer from whoever is inside. If there is no answer, I will enter the building. I need you to keep watch of the back and east entrances in case any suspect tries to leave that way. Tune in to channel 212-501. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Mercury replied, dialing into the channel.

After exchanging the standard comm greetings and clearances, Mercury, call sign 'Smokey,' disappeared down a side alley. Once the officer confirmed his position, Prowl walked  to the entrance and rapped a quick knock on the glass door.

“This is Detective Prowl with the PED. We received a call about an alarm. I am going to search the premises. Please respond.”

Silence.

Prowl glanced up at the two security cameras pointed straight at the entrance. Any security personnel should be able to see him.

A dark feeling was beginning to take hold of his spark.

He activated his frame’s speakers and repeated his request at a higher decibel. 

Silence. 

The detective activated his comm, “This is Dragon. Failed to establish contact after several attempts. I suspect a possible 10-64 or 10-62. Have we secured permission to enter? Over.”

“We received permission from the regional manager. You’re clear to search the building. You should receive the skeletal key credentials in a minute. Over.” Dispatch crackled over the comm.

A ding on his HUD announced the arrival of the key alongside building schematics.

Prowl transmitted the credentials, causing the glass doors to open. Cautiously, he entered with his door wings arched in high alert. His recovering doorwing trembled slightly.

It was dark inside the building. The office scenery transformed into strange shapes in the night cycle. The detective silently stalked through the foyer, heading towards the security office in the back. He paused outside the security office’s door, straining his audials, but heard nothing. He knocked on the door and announced his presence.

Silence.

Moving to the side of the entryway, he unsubspaced his enforcer-issued blaster and sent the electronic key over to the lock terminal. The door popped open, and Prowl whipped around, blaster at the ready.

The office was empty.

He slowly walked over to the abandoned work terminal in front of a wall of screens, swiveling his helm as he scanned the room. He scrutinized the screens that showcased different sections of the building.

Not a soul to be seen.

He tapped at the terminal to manually refresh the screens. The screens spat out static for a second, but the view did not change. 

Prowl narrowed his optics.

Crouching, he felt along the edge of the terminal until his fingers bumped against a port. He took out a quarantine connector from his subspace and plugged it in. Popping open a panel on his arm, he unspooled a cable and connected it with the adapter. 

Armed with the skeletal key, he neatly sidestepped access firewalls and plunged into the data stream.  His processor ripped through the feed. He ignored the visual data in pursuit of his quarry..

Classic , he thought as he delicately detached the visual feed loop program from the system before disconnecting from the quarantine block.

He made a note to recommend that Copperport Corporation update its cybersecurity protocols and not have a passkey that gave access to everything.

Again, he manually refreshed the visual feed.

The screens flicker without static. Prowl scanned the feeds that, by all appearances, had not changed.

There! His helm snapped towards a flash of movement in one of the cameras. His optics darted to another screen as a blurry sliver of black plating sedately crossed the edge of the camera’s scope.

The possible saboteur was taking precautions, but they were not in a hurry.

They do not know I am here , Prowl realized as he continued tracking glimpses of the mech.

“Praxus-23, come in,” Prowl commed, “The situation has escalated. Over.”

Crackly static was his only answer. 

He glanced around with a frown. The Praxian did not want to search the entire room and risk further contaminating an active crime scene. However, leaving the communication lines down was a lethal mistake.

Picking three locations inside and outside the office, he walked to each one while checking his signal strength. Every once in a while, he glanced at the monitors to catch a flash of black and white on the upper floors, slowly making its way down, spurring Prowl to move faster.

Pausing at the area with the weakest signal between the three points, he examined a scuffed panel by the ALG comm terminal. Fitting his fingers into the seam, he pulled it open, revealing a wireless jammer magnetized in place. He flicked the small power switch off and tried contacting dispatch.

“Praxus-23, come in. Smokey, come in. 10-32. Over.” Radio check.

“10-2, Dragon. Over,” replied dispatch. Clear signal.

“Ditto,” echoed Mercury.

“The situation has escalated,” Prowl checked the monitor for the suspect’s position, “There is evidence of sabotage in the security room, and a suspicious mech is on the upper floors, near where the alarm went off.” A fuzzy blip flickered in a camera screen closer to the middle floors before disappearing, “I am moving in to apprehend the suspect. Smokey, prepare for egress. Over.”

“10-0, Dragon. Over,” dispatch said. Be cautious.

“Moving into position. Smokey, out,” Mercury closed.

Prowl noted the last floor the suspect was on and vacated the security room. He climbed a side stairwell until he reached the floor he calculated the suspect would arrive at. Carefully opening the door, he slipped through and scanned his surroundings.

The floor was a foyer with a circular reception desk, award plaques mounted on the walls, and large bay windows. It lead to an upper floor via an intricate staircase that wrapped around itself to connect to a bridge. 

Prowl stealthily made his way over to the staircase and hid himself underneath. When the saboteur came down the stairs, they would not see the enforcer, and their back would be turned.

His tac net steadily counted down to the moment the suspect would arrive based on the average rate of speed Prowl observed in the security room. 

5…

4…

3…

His doorwings flicked out as he keyed them up. He strained his audials but heard nothing so far. Yet there was a slight shift of air across his sensory wings.

2…

1…

A faint musical hum drifted towards Prowl.

He recognized that tune.

“You!” Prowl snarled, stepping out of his hiding spot.

“Me?!” Jazz pointed to himself, his other servo holding a box to his side.

Prowl’s left optic twitched. He straightened himself up with steel in his optics. 

He was a professional .

“I am Detective Prowl with the Praxian Enforcer Department. We received a call about an incident at this address and have been given permission by the owner to enter the premises. We have tried to establish contact multiple times, and no one responded. What is your business here?”

“Uh, I work here?” Jazz cocked his head to the side.

Prowl was not impressed.

It must have shown on his face as the musician, now potential saboteur, hastily added, “Honest! I started workin’ fer Shatter Star just a couple orns ago, so I’m still gettin’ used ta all the rules. I must’ve tripped an alarm I didn’t know about or left the back door open again. Sorry ‘bout that, won’t happen a third time, promise.” Jazz held a servo up in a mock vow with an apologetic smile.

The Polyhexian shifted slightly to the side. Prowl mirrored it.

“We gave ample time for you to collect yourself and provide a response. Why were you silent?” The enforcer pressed.

“I was patrollin’ the top floors, y’see. It’s a tall tower, my mech. I just came down.”

“Are you the only one here?”

“Yeah, a couple of ‘em called in today, so it’s just me.” Jazz shifted to the other side. Prowl continued to act as his shadow.

“What is in the box?”

“Sound equipment. I have a gig right after work today. Yer welcome ta come if ya want. It’s open ta anybody.”

Prowl brushed aside the friendly offer, “Last time we met, you said you were “skipping town” in a couple orns. It has been a fortnight since then.”

“I’m as disappointed as you are. Turns out travel is more expensive than ya think! I thought I saved enough, but then the final cost fer the shuttle ticket came in. There were a lot more zeros after that shanix sign than I expected. So, I picked up this job since all of my permits expired. I shoulda listened ta ya and gotten ‘em renewed.” Jazz shook his head in mock sorrow.

“The license that allowed you to perform here in Lithic Plaza? To observe the comings and goings of everyone in and out of this tower? Highly coincidental.”

“I know right? I made friends with the head guard. He’s a fan of the band Staniz Shake Up.”

Prowl had enough, “I am taking you into custody for further questioning.”

“What?! C’mon, mech, I gotta go to my gig in a couple hours. This is really gonna ruin my night.” The musician pleaded.

“Place the box on the ground and away from yourself. Put your servos up where I can see them.”

“Knew I shoulda kept my mouth shut.” Jazz grumbled but complied, placing the box on the ground.

“Under Praxian law, you have the right to remain silent.  Anything you say can and will be used against you in court.” Prowl unsubspaced a pair of stasis cuffs “You have the right to an attorney."

“Did ya miss the part where I said I was flat broke?”

The Praxian ignored the quip, "If you cannot afford one,” Prowl moved Jazz’s servos down and behind, cuffing them together, “one will be provided for you. Do you understand your rights and do you wish to speak to the enforcers?”

“Just did,” the suspect drawled.

With the potential saboteur officially under arrest and detained, Prowl activated his comms to give an update on the situation.

SMACK!

“Agh!” Prowl yelled as pain burst across his helm. 

Clutching at his injury, he saw the cuffs that had collided with his helm skitter across the ground. Off-kilter from the high-velocity manacles, he watched dumbly as a newly freed Jazz, with the box in servo, crashed through a window.

Shattered glass rained down as the Polyhexian disappeared into the night.

Prowl ran over to the broken window, dreading the carnage he might see when he looked down.

A white form flipped its way to freedom across the rooftops and alleyways.

Prowl’s concern rapidly left him.

“What was that?!” Mercury exclaimed over comms, “Are you alright, Dragon?”

Prowl backed away from the window.

“Suspect is on the run. I’m in pursuit. Over.” Prowl cooly replied.

“In pursuit? Of what? You’re ten floors up!”

It’s the most direct path, the detective thought to himself, ignoring the comm chatter. It’s only logical.

Crouching into a running position, Prowl burst forward and vaulted out of the window.

The cold night wind whistled past his audials as he sailed forward through the air in freefall. Prowl focused on a rooftop rushing up to meet him. His frame jolted and shuddered as he landed on his forepedes with slightly bent knee joints. Utilizing his residual momentum, he smoothly collapsed his legs and tucked into a roll. Popping up, he continued freerunning across the rooftop, optics tracking the receding form of Jazz. 

“What gymnastics are you pulling?!” Mercury yelped.

“I’m in pursuit. Over.” Prowl replied, skidding across a wall fixture and down a lower level of the building.

 He hopped across several columns and leapt off the last one to make it to the next rooftop. A numb pain was building up in his shin plating and his recovering wing was shaking but the detective estimated he had enough time before his injuries incapacitated him.

He was getting closer to the suspect, who continued to flip, roll, and all but dance his way to life as a fugitive. 

Energon pounded in Prowl’s audials. He barely registered how he was getting from one platform to another anymore. His tacnet worked quickly in the background to create order from the chaos of the rooftop labyrinth and Prowl accepted the route suggestions without question in a mad dash to catch up to the saboteur. The Praxian’s alt mode was a pursuit vehicle, he could override fatigue and pain alerts to keep the chase up for as long as he needed.

They had left Lithic Plaza by this point. The buildings shifted into humble businesses and residences that were more spread out. 

Jazz was not slowing down.

But the detective was catching up. Prowl could make out a couple of the red and blue stripes that decorated the musician’s frame. The Polyhexian suddenly ducked and slid forward on his frame down a sloped roof, box held out in front of him. He used one servo to flip over the edge of the roof and land down in the street. The change in levels did not deter Jazz who pivoted down a side alley.

Prowl slid down the sloped roof at an angle, caught himself on a secondary ledge, and jumped off into the street. He gave a cordial nod to a couple mechs gazing at the scene with wide optics before continuing the pursuit.

Instead of following Jazz into the side alley, Prowl took the standard road and intercepted the saboteur’s exit.

“C’mon, mech! This is ridiculous,” Jazz snarled as he skidded to a stop.

“I agree.” 

The saboteur threw a punch and Prowl grabbed his arm and threw him down to the ground. The box burst open and spilled out sound equipment. 

Jazz was truthful about one thing it seemed.

The detective pinned the fugitive down.

“Do I look like a rookie to you?” Prowl asked as he caged the Polyhexian’s servos.

Jazz was too busy breaking the enforcer’s grip to answer.

The saboteur brought his elbow joints down while bucking the Praxian off, causing Prowl to lose the upper servo and be thrown forward. Jazz wrapped a leg around the detective’s to further destabilize him and clawed up his back. Raking the sensitive door wings that made Prowl yell in pain. Locking his arms around Prowl’s back and arm, Jazz heaved the Praxian over. Their positions were now reversed and the saboteur took the opportunity to strike out a couple hits to Prowl’s face and chest plates before scrambling away towards the crumpled box.

Jazz hastily subspaced a couple random parts and picked up a small black container that had also fallen out. He picked a direction at random, transformed into his alt mode, a weekend race car ,  and continued hightailing his way to freedom.

Prowl unsteadily got back to his pedes, transformed into his alt mode, and peeled out after the joyrider. Sirens wailing and flashing in the night cycle.

“Mercury!” Prowl commed over the roar of his engines, the race car’s tail lights were rapidly fading away in the distance, “How fast can you get to these coordinates?!” He threw the location pin into the channel.

“ETA Signal 5,” Mercury replied. Five minutes.

Five minutes was a long time.

“I’m going to corral the suspect to that location. I need you to block off the exit. Copy?”

“Copy.”

Prowl gunned his engines and gradually caught up to the race car.  Civilians on the road in alt mode hastily swerved out of the way. He began cutting and blocking off the Polyhexian from going any direction but the one Prowl wanted for five grueling minutes.

His energon gauge steadily ticked away towards empty.

Finally, they rounded a corner and there was Mercury at the end of the road with the exits blocked off.

Jazz’s breaks screeched. The white and black race car sharply turned to slow himself down as his frame drifted across the road in an arc. The Polyhexian managed a 180 degree turn with burnt rubber and smoke filling the air, and charged towards Prowl with a roar.

The enforcer tried to swerve aside from the suicidal suspect. They were too close, there would be scrapped plating and crumpled components but it could at least soften the blow.

Prowl braced for impact.

Right before they were to collide, Jazz transformed back into root mode, leaping forward without touching the ground, the black box he had picked up earlier sailing in a harmless arc through the air. The saboteur’s servos planted on Prowl’s hood and he used it as a springboard to flip over the enforcer vehicle. At the midpoint of his cartwheel, he snatched the box out of the air. Clearing the wailing sirens, he transformed into alt mode and landed safely back on the road. With a squeal of tires, he shot back out into the night cycle.

Prowl watched the fleeing race car in silence, dumbfounded.

“That mech is glitched! Primus!” Mercury elegantly summarized.

An icy fury that had been building up in Prowl the entire night finally cracked.

“Mercury!” Prowl snapped over comms, “with me!”

The two pursuit vehicles shot down the road, hot on the race car’s tail.

His glitch’s words rebounded in Prowl’s processor, Mechs switched up the tempo on us, but if they want to dance, then let’s dance .

“Mercury, pull ahead and force him down these streets,” Prowl barked, “We are going to exploit his adaptability.”

The other enforcer put on a burst of speed to flank Jazz. If the Polyhexian tried to slow down or speed up, the officer matched him and slowly closed in on him. 

With Mercury to his side and Prowl close behind, Jazz took a sharp turn and flew through transformation sequences to run down a narrow street full of twists and turns.

Without missing a beat, Prowl changed into root mode and half ran half climbed up the wall of a building and free ran across the rooftops. He reached a ledge that jutted out where the narrow street emptied out and leapt off.

Streaking through the air, Prowl crashed on top of Jazz.

“Gah!” The Polyhexian cried out as his face met asphalt. 

The detective had hoped this tactic would give him the drop on the saboteur, but the thief was like a live wire and within moments they were wrestling in the dirt.

The black box the saboteur held clattered across the ground and split open. A blinding bright blue light poured out, making Jazz and Prowl pause in their grappling. A shrieking cackle filled the air as a blue shard shot out from the box and into the air.

“Hahaha! Free! FREE! Cybertron, your glorious overlord has returned!” The disembodied spark pulsed before streaking off like a comet.

“The frag…?” Jazz murmured, pinning one of Prowl’s legs.

“You saw that too?” Prowl asked, arms wrapped around Jazz’s torso, in the middle of executing a violent body slam. 

“Yeah. Truce? Until we capture a spark dictator spirit thing?”

“Truce.”

They shook servos. 

Hastily they scrambled after the light trail of the spark. Jazz made sure to pick up the black box.

“Status update,” Prowl commed, “There is another fugitive on the run. In pursuit. Over.”

“What happened to the first fugitive? Where are you even?” Mercury asked.

“I’m at-.”

“Don’t think I don’t see you two bumbling autobots following me!” The spark they were chasing shrieked as it rounded about to face them.

Did sparks have faces? Did they have a more front part in their shards?

It does not matter, Prowl decided as he dodged to the side to avoid an electric blast from the dictator spirit. This spark is much more dangerous than I thought.

Electric currents crackled around the spark as it pulsed brighter and brighter.

“Get down!” Prowl ducked as multiple cords of energy lashed out. 

The air filled with smoke as the energy scorched metal, even melting some unlucky poles.

Prowl’s optics widened as the energy beams began to move in an erratic circle. He scrambled out of the way but one of them nicked his door wing.

A hot white pain burst throughout his entire frame. He collapsed to the ground and twitched as his sensors were flooded with raw energy. Cascading error windows filled his HUD. In the wall of error error error, Prowl made out a couple system failure reports. His optics shorted out and plunged him into darkness.

He forced a hard reboot as he heard the accursed spark laugh once more. The enforcer was vaguely aware that his frame was smoking and uncontrollably shaking.

“How do you like the taste of my pure power!?” It gloated, “Don’t worry, I won’t destroy you yet . Once I get a perfect new frame, you’ll have the honor of being the first I kill. It’s only fair, considering you’ve been a thorn in my- are you stupid?!” 

The spark squawked at Jazz who had attempted to grab the spark as it bragged, but had received a voltage induced frame lockup for his troubles. The Polyhexian laid limply on the ground. His white plating was nearly gray from smoke and all the scuffs accrued from the earlier chase.

“What am I saying, of course you are. You’re autodorks for Primus’s sake!”

Autodorks? Prowl thought incredulously.

“Just wait down there like the worms you are and I’ll be back to finish you off soon,” sneer evident in its’ voice, the spark raced off in the direction of the forge pits.

“Alright,” Jazz croaked, “New plan: You distract it, and I get it with the box.”

“We need to get up first,” Prowl heaved himself up on shaky arms.

Jazz groaned into the asphalt.

They took a moment to collect themselves before racing in the direction of the errant spark.

The destructive shard of energy was fast but Prowl was working off adrenaline infused energon and a manic focus granted to the sleep deprived mechs who have reached their limit. 

Skidding to a halt, he whipped out his blaster and fired a couple shots at the spark when its speeding form came into view.

The spark deftly dodged the bolts and flew in a couple arcs to ‘face’ Prowl.

“Pathetic. You think a mere blaster is enough to stop me ?”

Prowl had no idea who or what the spark was exactly but he needed to buy time for Jazz to get into position.

Luckily, the detective knew how to deal with these prideful types.

“Who are you?” Prowl asked.

The spark reeled back in shock and sputtered, “Who am I? Of all the inane, insufferable, incoherent-!” The shard’s glow brightened as it puffed itself up, “I am the lord of the firmament. The feared and most cunning Winglord of Vos! The respected and undisputed air commander of the Decepticons. Head of the elite trine.  Second in command to the Unmaker himself. The once and future emperor of Cybertron! I am Lord STAR-aggh!”

Jazz closed the black box around the spark with a snap!

The Polyhexian let out a great sigh and collapsed to the ground. His door wings quivered in exhaustion. He curled into a ball and rubbed at his faceplates. Smearing ash as he did so.

“That was…” Jazz gasped out, “Is this…You still gonna arrest me?”

“Are you going to continue evading arrest?”

Jazz glanced at Prowl with an annoyed and tired look of What do you think?

Prowl stumbled over to the musician. His processor was a whirlwind trying to comprehend the erratic turns and pivots of the two chases. The wild events of the night cycle catching up to him with a vengeance.

But dawn was still far off.

The ground began to shake and heave like a ship caught in a storm. Sending the Praxian to the ground with a yelp. The buildings creaked and groaned as they swayed back and forth. The skyscrapers contorted in ways that seemed to defy physics. A wild fear seized Prowl that the buildings were going to collapse and bury both him and Jazz. 

There was an acrid electric current underlying the very air.

Prowl tried to get up and move but the upheaval prevented him from being able to even stand. 

A quiet, reedy sound resonated through his frame. A percussion of booms, like from distant canons, accompanied the haunting melody.

As if that was the cue it was waiting for, Cybertron opened up and swallowed him whole.

Chapter Text

D-16 staggered across ash. The fragile, delicate flakes dispersed as though they had never been there.

Distantly, he heard sirens before collapsing.

When he came to, the miner found himself lying in a medical berth. He was hooked up to curious machines monitoring various vitals.

He could still smell smoke.

Optimus Prime sat in a chair with his optics closed, deep in thought. D-16 vaguely recalled the prime talking to him as he floated in and out of awareness. Never once abandoning his side.

A thought nagged him. Something was off about this situation. When he realized what it was, a darkness seeped into his spark.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“Huh-?” The prime looked up, caught off guard. For a second, the specter looked like he wanted to express gladness at the miner not having died in the night but refrained at his stormy expression.

“Why are you here?” D-16 repeated.

“I do not follow,” Optimus frowned, “Where else would I be but at your side?”

“If I recall correctly,” D-16’s optics hardened, “you said that every time you tried to leave the mine, you would ‘white out.’ I have been in that mine's medbay more times than I can count. This place looks nothing like it. We are a long way from that pit . Why are you still here?”

The prime gave him an odd look, “I kept pace with you when you began walking away. As we traveled further from the wreckage, I was worried that I would disappear before you could receive proper help. Fortunately, you were found. I decided to stay and make sure you were taken care of. As for how I am still here? That remains unknown. Perhaps I am not tied to a single place, as I first thought,” Optimus calmly explained. 

An irrational hatred swelled within D-16 at that calmness.

He wanted Optimus to hurt .

“Want to know what I think?” The younger mech snarled, “I think you enjoyed slumming with the poor miners. A god amongst trash ,” he spat out, “Was it funny? Did you get a good laugh?  I hope you did because it will not happen again!” D-16 bared his dentae in a snarl, the lines chaining him to the monitors becoming taut as he loomed over the prime.

“Why are you here!” D-16 thundered. He wanted, no, needed, the other mech gone, “ Get out! ”

Optimis carefully stood from his seat. The movement caused drops of pink energon to escape his chest cavity and splatter the pristine floor. He brought up his servos to diffuse the fury choking the air, “I do not know why fate has decided I should remain in the waking world of the living. Whatever design destiny has laid out for us, know this: I stayed because you gave me hope. When I lost my way, you came back for me. I wanted to repay your kindness.” The prime searched him with concerned optics, “D-16, do you trust me?”

“I thought I did. Before everything ended. When you made that promise. Ha!” He barked, “I should have known better. How can a mech who failed to save himself save others?”

Optimus flinched.

There was a vindictive and twisted pleasure in being the one to hurt another for once.

It was wrong. The miner knew this. Could feel the shame waiting for him when the flames finally died inside him. Stubbornly, he clung to the embers of his hatred, afraid to feel the cold that would follow their end.

“D-16, it was never my intention-”

“A fire rages inside me,” the grey mech interrupted, clawing at his chest plates, “And I cannot let go. I want them all to hurt like how I hurt!

“Who is ‘them’?” Optimus asked cautiously. His servo reached out instinctually to stop the other mech from hurting himself but helplessly faded through.

“Take your pick!” D-16 swiped at the prime, his vision unsteady, “That recruiter who fed me false fantasies. Radon and his traitors . But they are all dead,” the injured mech flexed his shredded servos, “Them and A-24, RM-4, and SK-37. Yet nothing has changed: I am still an indentured servant. I will work until my quota is fulfilled by a broken frame and bloodied servo.” He clenched his servos into fists as something old and deep inside him snapped, “It was not enough. No, not near enough!”

The miner leaped from the berth, dislodging the monitors who started a cacophonic staccato of warnings, and began storming around the room, “They told me seven vorns. Seven vorns and then I would be free. It has been decavorns! This is the farthest I have ever gotten. And it was not by fulfilling production quotas. It was because the mine was blown up!”

He paused to lean against a wall, huffing and puffing as his legs shook underneath him. Optimus watched him with wide optics.

“I almost want to shake servos with Primus himself,” he chuckled breathlessly, “Thank him for reminding me that fate is cruel and death is the great equalizer. In death, a manager and a miner share the same fate. No matter what sermons the supporters of the system spew in their synagogues of sand. Even you are proof that not even a prime is above the powers of the grave,” he stabbed a finger at Optimus.

The prime stood rooted to the spot, morbidly entranced by the manic state of the miner.

D-16 let out a delirious laugh that turned into choked breaths before crumbling to the ground, the grey mech's great frame shuddered with each vent.

Optimus rushed over, “D-16! D-16, are you all right!?”

The miner turned his helm to the side, exposing a baleful optic as blue energon dribbled from his lips, “What use is the cold? I will have nothing if I extinguish this flame. I will see them burn . And when their world is reduced to rubble as mine has, I can say justice is satisfied, that I am satisfied.

“I will die before I return to the shadow of slavery,” he bared his dentae, ignorant to Optimus’s growing horror and to the coolant streaming down his own faceplates, “I may be weak now, but I will gain power even if I have to claw for every iota. Forget Primus and the primes. You and the taskmasters have given me empty promises. But here is my promise, and mark me it is no paltry platitude: I will never be made a slave again.”

“You set down this path and you will enslave yourself!” the prime snarled with frenzied, blazing optics.

D-16 glared the prime down. 

Optimus returned the glower, “I’m not so selfish or foolish as to harass you or cling to your plating when you have made it abundantly clear I am not wanted. I will leave.”

D-16’s clenched his optics shut with a snarl as they stung with tears. In his turbulent anger, he missed the prime's optics widening in surprise as the specter's ghostly form flickered and vanished.

Medical personnel rushed into the room and quickly moved the patient to the berth.

The miner threw his helm against the metal with a clang, gritting his dentae. He would not cry. He would not feel regret. He would not be weak. Tears never solved a fragging thing .

The room was filled with strangled gasps and choked sobs.

Darkness crept around his vision. He closed his optics tight.

The miner was tired of the dark but could not fight it off.

Just. 

Like. 

Always .

“Hey, hey, are you ok?” A young voice broke through the roar of self-hatred.

There was a light tap on the miner’s pede.

D-16 tried to suck in air. His systems threw up warnings about his engine overheating and clogging up as his internal fans clicked on. 

“You’re not alone, I’m here to help,” the young voice continued to reassure, “Can you vent in and out with me?”

D-16 gave a shaky nod, still squeezing his optics shut.

“Ok, in for three... Out for three.. ” the voice coached, never rising above a gentle murmur.

As he focused on breathing, the despair felt bearable for a moment. 

There was a sharp pinch in his neck cabling.

He woke back in the room he found himself in before. Alone. Just like he wanted. Funny, he thought that would make him happier.

The raw outburst from the previous orn’s events gave everything an oddly muffled clarity. A faint hum of emotions but no assessments attached to the waking world. It just was.

He turned his attention to his current condition. Discolored weld patches traced his frame, while panels and transformation seams were dented in and out of shape. The medics had done a good job of putting him back together into a semblance of a mech and not a living wreck, but his transformations would be rough. Monitor lines hooked into ports around his wrist and arms. A sedated but steady beep from the monitors filled the room. Overall, his frame felt as numb as his spark. A poke around his processor revealed medical-grade pain patches in effect.

He let out a sharp hiss as flashes of charred-.

He yanked his helm to the side with a harsh breath. 

The door to the room opened, distracting D-16.

A small bot with red and white plating entered the room. If the miner were to stand, he would easily tower over the medic. Red crosses adorned white pauldrons. His frame was light and built for swift transport. The unknown medic also had the biggest, most earnest, blue visor D-16 had ever seen that, paired with a white lower face mask, obscured his faceplates.

The medic took a breath and spoke with a slight quaver in his voice, “Hello, I am First Aid, a med student working with Dr. Triage on your recovery here at Silver River Clinic. I am here to conduct a psychiatric assessment and to go over your lab results with you. Do you have any concerns or requests before we begin? Are you experiencing any discomfort or pain?”

“No?” 

First Aid averted his gaze and flicked through the datapad in his servos, “The anesthesiologist informed me that the tyrexicom pain patches he had administered to you went on the fritz yesterorn. The meds have been switched to bloxian since then. You may feel nauseous as a side-effect, but the programming is more stable. If you start feeling other adverse side effects, let me know, and we will adjust it accordingly.”

The medic moved the chair Optimus had abandoned closer to the berth and sat down, “Besides physical well-being, how else are you doing today?” First Aid’s fingers drummed nervously over the datapad.

“Take a wild guess,” D-16 deadpanned, irritated at the interrogation. 

The medic noted the response, “Have you had any suicidal thoughts or thoughts to harm others?”

An image of Optimus flashed through the miner’s mind. 

At that moment, he had truly wanted the prime to hurt. 

When it became clear that no answer was forthcoming, First Aid clasped his servos together and took a moment to gather his courage before starting, “Let me lay my cards on the table here,” the medic began shakily but not unkindly, “I want to help you, but I need your cooperation. If you refuse to answer the questions, you will be sent to the psychiatric unit for three orns as a safety measure, and a crisis counselor will ask you these same questions. Understand?”

D-16 studied First Aid. In the depths of the earnest blue visor, he was reminded achingly of RM-4. 

The minibot was far away now.

“Ok,” D-16 breathed.

Following the psych eval, which the miner thought he passed, First Aid moved on to the lab results and treatment plans. A pressing concern was the potential for rust infection in D-16’s wounds.

“Rust infections will kill you.” The medic informed the miner shortly, voice more steady now, “They are caused by spores entering your frame through an injury. They become bacteria and create a toxin that blocks signals. Your plating will spasm so badly that your internal structures will fracture, your cabling will tear, and your engine block will crack. And we don’t want that,” First Aid finished brightly.

D-16 slowly nodded, feeling oddly threatened by someone he could punt across a leach field.

“As a precautionary measure, we will do a thorough sterilization cleanse. There is a wash rack attached to this room we can use.”

“I can barely move my legs.”

“No problem. I can help you with the wash rack. I will need to touch you. Is that alright?”

D-16 thought it was more likely he was going to squish the medic but a washoff sounded nice at that moment.

After the miner agreed, First Aid handled the larger mech easily, taking on most of D-16’s weight.

The miner was starting to think that First Aid could punt him across a leach field.

The wash rack doubled as both a shower and a bath. First Aid had the injured mech sit in the tub first, to immerse him “to the pits.”

The younger mech’s visor thinned mischievously as he uttered the faux swear.

D-16 had heard and said worse. He was reluctant to crush the younger bot’s innocence though, especially as the medic had stopped being skittish, so he let First Aid have his small rebellion instead of suggesting more crass iterations.

The medic filled the bath with a sickly sweet-smelling solvent. D-16 nearly shot out of the tub when his plating turned black upon contact. 

“That’s supposed to happen! It’s alright, it’s carbon from rust. Just gotta scrub it off,” First Aid hastily reassured under the miner’s scowl.

Armed with a wire brush, the medic started scrubbing off the black. Under his efforts, the solvent turned an acrid brown. 

The warmth and the detailing work were a pleasant experience for D-16. His optics closed and his powerful engines hummed in contentment. He tried to savor the feeling of being clean . There was no other way to describe it than sweet . If he was not tired of tears and did not have an audience, he would have cried. 

In his spark, a sharp pang of shame stabbed internally, making him wince. 

First Aid emptied the tub, “Avoid solvents whose primary ingredients are phosphoric acid, ok? The fumes are strong and it doesn't break down the rust as well as phytic acid will.”

The injured mech watched as the soiled liquid swirled down the vat’s drain, taking all the dirt and grime of the mine away. 

“We’re going to do some touch-ups on your paint since it acts as a barrier to rust,” The medic handed him some fluffy drying cloths, “Cool?”

“Frigid,” D-16 murmured as he toweled himself off.

“Chillin’ like a villain in zero arctic wind…” First Aid trailed off at the look of confusion from the miner. “It’s, uh, from a holovid.”

Once dried, the medic again supported the miner back to his berth and rewired him into the monitors. 

‘Touch-ups’ implied a quick dab of a nanite paint pen bought at the store. First Aid meant a series of sanding, sealing, more sanding, thinners, priming, even more sanding, then paint , lacquering, and finally, some light wax buffering.

The extensive and processor-numbing process further lulled the miner into a sleepy stupor.

“Can we…finish this…tomorrow?” D-16 murmured softly, fighting to keep his optics open.

He was out before First Aid could say anything.

D-16 was in the mines, pushing a cart full of ore. A cavern wall rose sharply to his left while a severe drop-off into a pit yawned to his right. One misstep and he would be sent to his doom.

Haphazardly lurching on a loose rock, the cart fell off the path with a clatter. The blue ore scattered like stars in the inky darkness.

A-24, just ahead of D-16 on the path, looked at the younger miner, “We gotta go pick it up.”

D-16 stood on the edge of the ravine.

Closing his optics, he let his frame fall forward.

D-16 woke up with a small smile.

Optimus was still missing.

D-16 had undergone a rash of surgeries to repair the support struts in his legs. If he could not feel his legs before, he could now. The blazion (Blaxium? Blaxern?) took the pain’s edge off, but his legs still throbbed and felt unbearably hot.

More miserable still was being confined to a berth for orns on end. It was making the mech agitated and twitchy. While the moments to rest in the mines had been sweet reprieves, now it was a compression of energy with nowhere to go. D-16 tapped his fingers on the berth in a futile attempt to burn off the nervous energy.

Being still and doing nothing made it easier for dark cyberhounds to come baying for his spark. The howls sounded more like screams.

D-16 shivered as the room seemed to grow colder.

He was about to throw the surgeon’s stern orders to rest to the wind and get up when the doors opened to admit First Aid.

“Hello,” the medic chirped, “It’s been a while. Are you ready to get those surgery welds finished?” He hefted a supply caddy.

“Sure,” D-16 sighed, slumping back in the berth.

“How are you today, D-16?” Asked First Aid.

“Awful,” the miner responded truthfully.

“I'm really sorry to hear that," If it was anyone else (besides Optimus Prime or maybe RM-4), D-16 would have assumed the sentient to be insincere. "Are the surgery welds not setting well?" First Aid continued, "Or do you need to talk to someone? We can get you in with the resident therapist. He’s booked out for a vorn though,” The medic finished sheepishly.

“I hurt a friend,” D-16 supplied. 

First Aid gave him a confused look, “What did you do that for? Leg, please.”

“I cannot say,” D-16 huffed, obediently moving his leg closer, “I was just mad . I have been mad ever since…” he trailed off, ever since the mine blew up went unsaid.

The medic inspected a healing weld, “Do you want to be mad?”

“I no longer know a different way to be.”

First Aid mulled over his words and took out a hand grinder, “Does it feel like if you can get a few shots in that cut them to the quick, that’ll make things better? That you'll feel better?” He started sanding.

When he was satisfied with his work, First Aid leaned back and let out a sigh that reminded D-16 amusingly of the much older and more experienced Optimus. “I have eight brothers. One of them, Blades, is, well, his name spells it out. At his best, he is a fierce defender of those he cares about. But at his worst, he turns into a butcher. He pretends to not care. That his spark is as hard as his thick helm . But really, he's scared. He was treated horribly in the past, you see? No one gets through life alive," he let out an uncharacteristic bitter chuckle, "So now he lets his demons control him. Lashing out to protect himself," First Aid unconsciously rubbed a hand over a faded weld on his arm plating, "That's all there is to it: he is a slave to fear,” the medic shrugged as he applied a thin liquid coat on the leveled weld. The medic looked up at D-16, who was staring at him, enthralled in this unexpected personal drama. First Aid’s covered cheeks flushed blue. He whipped his helm back down to resolutely watch the paint dry, “Wh-what I’m trying to say is that, uh, I mean, uhm, th-that is to say, er, not letting our fury control us but to-to...we choose to help... uh, it is a skill that has to be built up through deliberate choices. Y-you know what I mean?”

“Not really.”

“Regardless! I’m here to help!” First Aid gave him two shaky thumbs up. His flustered state shook whatever confidence he had built up.

“Thanks.”

“Any time," the medic squeaked.

They lapsed into silence as D-16 contemplated First Aid’s advice while the medic finished checking the welds.

The smaller mech stashed the supplies back into the caddy and pulled out a scanner. He plucked a cable out and unspooled it from the medical instrument.

“I brought up the tyrexicom patches with Dr. Triage,” First Aid explained as he fiddled with a couple dials, “The doctor has ordered and received approval for a more in-depth scan that I will carry out to see why they reacted negatively with your coding. This is a specialized scanner that focuses on the processor. It connects to your cortical psychic port, which is on your neck by the way. If you have any questions or want a copy of your patient’s rights, please let me know.”

D-16 wordlessly lowered his helm, revealing his neck cabling.

First Aid snapped the cable into the port. 

A notice popped up on D-16’s HUD, informing him that a third party was requesting access. Attached was a list of medical credentials. The miner cautiously granted access and watched in mild fascination as diagnostic scans were dispatched. A cool feeling crested over his processor like a wave as the procedure commenced.

Outside the connection, First Aid's servos gripped the scanner tightly when the results came back.

“What happened to your priority trees?!” First Aid yelled.

“Nothing. They’re fine.”

First Aid dropped his voice to a stressed hiss, “ Fine? Did someone hack your systems ? These readouts are scary. Your stimuli reception’s key values alone are cause for worry. Primus, looking closer at these,” the young medic swiped furiously at the incoming data as he continued rattling off jargon, “Your main pain process is at a tertiary level, creating a major backlog of negative stimuli. Consequently, shutting down your processor’s lower limbic systems. No wonder your systems reacted negatively to the tyrexicom patches. Who did this to you?”

“I’m perfectly capable of messing up my own priority trees, thank you!” D-16 huffed out, shunting out the third party in his processor and firmly yanking the cord out from his neck. 

“Sorry!” First Aid quickly backpedaled, hiding behind the scanner,.

D-16 glowered down at the smaller medic.

A blue visor cautiously peeked over the scanner, “Why did you alter your value scores? Most mechs don’t know about them, let alone how to change them.”

“An older miner taught it to me. To help with the pain.”

“How do you feel about ‘pain’?”

“Pain is a hindrance. With quotas to be met, there is no time to stop.”

“That’s understandable, but these readouts are showing you are crippled psychologically.”

“…are you saying that I am emotionally constipated?” D-16 asked with a twitch of his optic.

First Aid nodded sympathetically, “Afraid so. ”

The medic flipped the scanner's screen around to showcase a cascading stream of files marked with tags like fear, pain, and hatred .

“This isn’t all there is to it, but when we recharge, the processor engages subroutines to form and store long-term memory files. There are also maintenance protocols at work cleaning the processor,” First Aid fully came out from behind the scanner.

“One memory file type created during recharge is episodic events. They are formed from processing external stimuli. These encoded files are then consolidated into the greater neural network. However, the amount of stress on your processor peaked and caused your emotional systems to undergo a collapse. As can be seen here and here,”  First Aid pointed at the timestamps between several files that showed a difference of a couple hours to a decaorn, “There is nothing between these timestamps: No sadness but no happiness. An attempt by the processor to protect itself from what it could no longer handle. A double-edged sword of protection and isolation.”

“It takes no note?”

“No, your processor is suppressing these psychological states so strongly they’re pushed further back into the queue. A ‘deal with it later’ response. The emotions aren’t actively logged, but that doesn’t mean they cease to exist.”

“And thus continue to affect the whole,” D-16 murmured, “What does this mean for me?”

“Your value tree needs to be reset to default so your mind can properly process the negative stimuli.”

“Will that,” D-16 took a small breath, “stop the hatred? The pain?”

First Aid tentatively laid a small, comforting servo on D-16’s brutalized ones.

“D-16,” the medic spoke softly, “ I don't know your entire situation. I can't even begin to imagine. But, I’m willing to bet this older miner was trying to protect you with the tools that he had at hand. And it worked for the short term. But for the long term, it’s best to change tactics. Other Cybertronians experience severe stress with default or modified priority trees. However, your current setup is expediting the issues. Ultimately, this is your choice. You don’t have to reset your priority trees. I highly recommend doing so , but you choose. If you don’t want to, we can move on to the next item on the docket. And trust me, there’s a lot!” He forced a cheery tone.

D-16 stared past the smaller mech, deep in thought, before he finally spoke, “Pain’s an old friend. Let’s proceed.”

D-16 had nightmares every night following the resetting of his priority tree. 

In one recurring nightmare, he dreamt that he was coughing up energon and someone would come and offer help. The helper would change from the old miner to Optimus to RM-4 to First Aid. Ultimately, it didn’t matter who it was that came. Nothing could be done to help him. He continued bleeding out. 

Bad dreams were to be expected as his processor cycled through the backlog of negative stimuli, but that didn’t make it less unpleasant. His anger didn’t abate entirely either, but it was easier to manage.

First Aid continued to be D-16’s primary medic. He wasn’t always by D-16’s side as he had other patients to attend to, but the young mech was dedicated to the miner's recovery. And, the older mech suspected, the smaller bot had few friends.

Eventually, to D-16’s immense relief, the miner was able to attend the physical therapy offered at the clinic.

Each orn he would participate in a variety of recalibrations and workouts overseen by a brash older femme.

“Get your joint moving in a circle, dearie. We're letting it come to us, we’re not coming to it,” she would cheerfully instruct him through working his torn deltoid cables, “Remember: motion is lubrication!”

Other recovering miners were present in the facilities where physical therapy was conducted, sometimes joining D-16 and the femme, who everyone called “Coach,” or doing a separate activity under the supervision of other facilitators.

The red-level miner felt the tension melt away when he was among his extended cohort. Most he didn’t recognize, but it was enough to be among mechs and femmes who understood the pain of their stations in society and endured the same catastrophe. The camaraderie found in the way weary optics would linger on him, searching for a familiar face. In the way that hope would bring out a spark of life. And in the way that hope would die when he wasn’t the one they wanted. He didn’t blame them. He looked at them the same way.

Optimus Prime stayed absent.

Besides Coach at physical recovery and First Aid soldering D-16 back together piece by tedious piece, there was another supporter in the miner’s corner: Quackles.

Quackles was a yellow rubber duck that First Aid had gifted him. 

Similar to a cybird, the replica was infinitely rounder. The so-called ‘duck’ was a species from a backwater planet that a scientist brought image captures of to the Institute of Natural Discoveries of Centurion, renowned for their research into organic life. The institute, in a never-ending bid to raise funds, manufactured some to sell.

According to First Aid, the rubber duck enjoyed booming success among programmers.

“Best part: you can squeeze him! Go ahead, give it a try,” the medic encouraged.

D-16 gave Quackles an unimpressed look.

The yellow duckie returned the look.

The miner gave a hard squeeze that choked the life out of the poor toy with an indignant Quack! Its black beady eyes bulged out. Nevertheless, it snapped back into shape when D-16 let up on the pressure.

“Crushing another under my fist is therapeutic,” the miner conceded. 

First Aid laughed nervously, “Feel free to give him a squeeze when you feel stressed.”

Quackles let out another indignant squeak as D-16 crushed him again.

Besides giving him Quackles, First Aid had been keeping him updated on the latest news about the mine. 

The mine had begun releasing the names of the deceased through news releases. The list of designations continued to grow ever longer.  Some bodies were so disfigured that they couldn’t be properly identified,

Today, when First Aid handed him the reports and got to work replacing compromised power circuits, D-16 saw A-24’s name listed under the deceased.

D-16’s instinctual reaction was to cry out. But the cries never left his intake. His faceplates remained emotionless. His servo softly petted Quackles.

What? Did you think he was exempt from death? D-16 berated himself, That it’s unfair? Anyone can die. 

When First Aid left for the night cycle, D-16 revealed his knicked prize: a tool for tightening bolts. The toolhead gleamed under the moonlight.

Minding the monitor cords, he leaned over the edge of the medical berth. With practiced strokes, he etched A-24s designation into the virgin metal. 

As more names were released, RM-4 and SK-37 joined A-24 in the meager memorial.

Additionally, the medic in training also kept D-16 up to date on lighter subjects. Helping the miner be grounded and secure in the present and not left to wander through dark thoughts. However, most topics the young bot talked about pertained to things D-16 had never heard of:

“There is yet another holonet rumor going around that Blurr has died. Some mech said that he saw his ghost trying to get back to Iacon with ‘intel.’ And a lot of bots believed it! Well, Blurr is still alive and just won the Triple Helix Cup at Velocitron yesterday.” First Aid ranted as he replaced a wire in D-16’s servo. 

The medic was currently stripping and reconfiguring the delicate wires in D-16’s servos following a failed calibration test at rehab that morning.

“Who is Blurr?” The miner cocked his helm to the side, Quackles carefully cupped in his other servo.

(The rubber duckie had proven himself to be a good listener and deserving of respect.)

First Aid nearly dropped his tools in shock, “Who is Blurr? Only the greatest racer of our time! As swift as the solar winds! Pshaw, ‘Who is Blurr’? How do you not know about the fastest Cybertonian in alt or root mode?”

“I live under a rock.”

The med student looked like he wanted to disappear.

“That recently exploded.”

“I am so sorry,” First Aid let out a strangled whisper.

“What about you?” The miner asked, “Where do you live?”

The medic eagerly leaped at the change in topic, “An hour from here in the South Tarn district, but I’m originally from Mebion.”

“I’m not originally from here either. I hail from Kaon. How do you end up in Tarn from Mebion?”

“I told you I’m a med student, right? I know I’m pretty young for one but I did well enough in med school at Protihex to get a jump up and the go-ahead to start my clinicals,” he snipped a wire, sounding very proud of his accomplishment, “I signed up for the international exchange program. This is my fourth clinical, I think? After my time here is up, I’ll be transferred to Iacon General, a trauma one hospital, and maybe learn from Ratchet the Hatchet himself!” he almost vibrated off his seat as he spoke about his next clinical prospect.

“How old are you?”

“20 vorns.”

“And that is considered young?”

“Unusually so.”

“I wasn’t even a vorn old when I started working in the mines,” D-16 mused.

First Aid paused in his repairs, “If I learn one more detail about your life, I’m going to cry.”

“It’s not all bad,” he refuted, “I…well… the mortality rate is only 68% and, wait, no,  that actually went up last vorn…uhm… I have friends! Who are…no longer here… and I hurt the only one I had left…” he sagged in defeat and gave Quackles a squeeze, “Everything has gone to the pits and yet I still live.”

“Guess life isn’t done with you yet,” First Aid weakly teased.

“That’s not comforting.”

“Er, how did you get from Kaon to here? If you don’t mind me asking. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” he rushed to assure, “It seems to me you have had a tough life,” First Aid pried off a mangled joint casing.

“It’s alright. When Coach was helping me rehab my legs, she made sure that I didn’t limp even though it hurt. She said that if I limped, that impairment would follow me long after the original wound was gone.”

D-16 took a deep breath as First Aid pulled out another warped piece of metal.

“It is custom in Kaon for a new build to make a contract with a sponsor, a mentor, to give you a trade and a foundational knowledge of the world. There are exceptions and some new builds decide to strike out on their own. But I digress. The biggest sponsors were the gladiator pits and the mines.” 

D-16 could still remember being lined up in the stifling heat of the factory. The gladiator scouts, imposing and calculating, inspecting the delta line from helm to pede.

He continued, “I was seen as the most promising candidate for the Ludus Divinus school. I would be trained, have my own doctor, and earn fame and riches. Even a chance at freedom if I survived and performed well in enough fights. If . But the mining recruiter from Tarn had the sweeter offer: seven vorns of work and then I would be free. Given a home, a portion of pay to start me off, the works. I wasn’t even a vorn-old and happy to throw myself to safety.

“It was a lie.”

“How old are you?”

“… I don’t know. I stopped keeping track after 25 vorns.”

“I’m sorry you went through all of that. Thank you for trusting me. That’s just… I don’t even have the glyphs for how horrible that is.”

D-16 took a shuddering breath and said nothing. He squeezed Quackles, making the poor duck squawk. But Quackles was a trooper, he would endure it for the miner.

We’re safe. The energon tastes better here… He trailed off in his thoughts. Those were the only positives he could find right now.

“Who’s this ‘Ratchet the Hatchet’?” D-16 asked, wanting to lift First Aid’s dour mood and his own by extension.

“The most type-a doctor you will ever meet in the history of Cybertron,” the medic swore with the solemnity of a saint, “Legend has it that he throws wrenches at anyone who disobeys his orders. He takes nothing from no one. He will throw down with the unmaker himself to save his patients. But,” here he leaned forward and dropped his voice to a whisper, “rumour has it that he was once the party ambulance.”

“And you want to learn from him ?”

“Most doctors are aggressive type-a know-it-alls jockeying with each other for superiority and are in general the worst to work with,” First Aid helplessly shrugged, “And from what I hear, Ratchet the Hatchet isn’t any different. But I am willing to put up with it to learn from the best and give my patients top care,” he balled his servos into determined fists, “And unlike some doctors, Ratchet actually cares about his patients.”

“That’s an honorable ambition.”

First Aid ducked his helm sheepishly.

“Also, you miswired the blue circuit.”

“What?”

“You put it in the wrong four-way switch.”

“What?!” He ducked his helm and studied the rainbow of wires, “Huh, you’re right. Sorry about that! Argh,” the smaller mech covered his face.

D-16 chuckled. Hiding in the shadows watching mining electrical engineers and techs was worth it sometimes.

There were few miners at the rehabilitation center that morning. 

When he asked Coach about it, the femme had huffed a bit.

“Their employers came and checked them out. That’s all I know and all I can say, dearie. Now, stretch your gastrocnemius cabling like this-“ she brusquely returned to business.

D-16 rigidly pantomimed her example, unable to hear her over the roar in his audials. His collar plating prickled and grew hot while his tanks roiled in a sickly rhythm. 

“You’re too tense. You gotta loosen up,” Coach chided from a million miles away.

He didn’t remember the transporter mechs walking him back to his room following rehab. He went unseeingly, almost colliding with medical personnel more than once despite the porters’ alarmed shouts and cut-off curses as they steered him out of the way. 

When he was safely alone in his room, he spoke, “I never left the mines. Not really. Nowhere is safe. ”

He had grown foolish and hadn’t thought to think about how the mine would drag him back into the abyss. They had legal claim over his fate, over their ‘ servant’.

For a terrible moment, he wished he had gone with RM-4 to the Allspark.

He took a breath to calm himself while his servos reflexively twitched in agitation.

Where is Optimus?! Annoyed with his thoughts, he shook his helm like a cyberpanthera chasing off scraplets. It doesn’t matter where he went. I’m on my own. 

He began to pace the length of his temporary room. Shrewdly analyzing and discarding the different options available to him. 

He could make a break for it. Walk out the front door and leave, no questions asked by the overworked staff. His frame was mostly healed. In fact, his body felt better than it had in vorns. But there were last-minute dressings that needed to be changed. 

There were also the trackers to consider. He knew about the feed loop systems used in the mines to keep track of the miners. Logically, they shouldn’t be able to find him above ground. But who knows what else the Tarnian Mine employed to find errant workers? 

Tabling that thought, he turned his thoughts to his next steps. 

The bitter truth was that there were no next steps for D-16. Not while the scales of power were tipped against him and others like him. He would be hounded by bounty hunters, slavers, and others of their government-sanctioned ilk if he ran before he fulfilled his production quota. 

He’d need to disappear. D-16 needed to disappear. A miner couldn’t do anything. But an outlier could not be defined by a system that by its very design was unable to fathom such a being.

As he mused over this, a timid knock came from the door before opening to admit the familiar medic.

“H-hey,” First Aid greeted with a strained voice, “Can you believe this is our last appointment?”

D-16 watched him warily, “What do you mean? I thought we had at least a fortnight left.”

“I thought so too,” he hastily moved an odd contraption into the room, “But since this mech from the mine showed up and had a word with the clinic’s administrator, your timeline has been moved up. You're getting released today! ” The faux cheer strained his voice further.

The world dropped out from beneath D-16. He sat down with a heavy thud, making the reinforced med berth creak and sag.

“ Today ?” He gasped. 

D-16’s time was up faster than he expected. His fate would be decided by the end of this appointment.

“They’re going to transfer your care to the mine’s onsite medbay. However, they don’t have a 3D printer like this,” First Aid patted the odd contraption, “Which gives us some time. Ironic, considering the mine donated this printer to the clinic.”

“Donated?” The miner asked, thoughts racing too fast to manage anything beyond one-word questions.

First Aid finished setting up the device and stepped back, revealing a small plaque that read:

Donated by the Imperial Mine of Tarn to the Silver River Clinic. To repair all that is broken. 

“It’s part of something called ‘equalization,’” the small medic explained, “Basically, a percentage of money is taken from the mine by the Tarnian government. This wealth is then redistributed to the surrounding area: hospitals, academies, public rec centers, etc.”

“‘Equalization,’ huh,” venom dripped from D-16’s mouth at the word, “What hypocrisy,” he stood up from the med berth, his processor made up, and began marching for the door.

However, he was intercepted by First Aid by running in front of him.

“Where are you going? You don’t need to go out there. We haven’t even started yet,” the red and white bot spread his arms out to act as a barrier.

“I refuse to spend another second here!” D-16 snarled, “In a place that profits from the deaths of my friends!”

The wide blue visor became impossibly wider at the declaration.

“I get that but you need to keep your voice down.”

“You understand nothing! Who do you think made that profit possible? Who enabled shanix to line your subspace? It certainly wasn’t mechs like you!”

“I’m not blind and I’m not proud of how we receive the funding,” the medic refuted heatedly, balling his servos into fists, “That’s why I… I…” he faltered and deflated, “I’m doing what I can,” he murmured to the floor.

“ This is your solution? To do nothing? To roll over in submission? To let lower caste mechs get beaten down into the dust?” Disgust lined D-16’s glyphs. In his spark, it felt like a chip had splintered off.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what ?”

“I’m saying you need to stop being so myopic!” the medic snapped. 

The miner was silent, taken back by the uncharacteristic outburst.

“I’m sorry,” the young student mumbled, moving to fidget with the 3D printer display inlaid in his forearm, “I shouldn’t have gotten mad. You’ve been through a lot and you’re right to be mad for how you’re treated. I just…” his visor glimmered with unshed coolant tears gathering around the seams of his mask, “I just don’t want anyone to get hurt. Is that really so terrible to wish for?” 

A heavy silence hung in the air following those words.

First Aid swiped at his tears and cleared his intake, “Please, keep your voice down. I don’t have answers right now but I’m trying to help, ok? For now, let’s get your servo plating fitted. These new ones are made from a titanium alloy and have a 15% density infill that’s a cross between a gyroid and a triangular pattern.”

As the medic began printing the new casings created by the mine-subsidized printer, D-16 felt his respect for the medic dissipate.

First Aid was an incredibly empathetic mech who cared deeply for others. The miner would admit to seeing the smaller mech as a friend. But D-16 now knew that First Aid didn’t have the strength to set a mech free. The small medic could only repair and send those in his care back out to be slaughtered.

A knock came from behind the door.

“Uhm, First Aid?” A wavery voice called out, “The mech from the mine is here-“

A rapt knock interrupted the voice.

“It’s been more than the agreed time! Is the asset ready for transfer, or not!?” A gruff voice demanded.

D-16’s plating flared out in fear. He balled his fists at his side and prepared to face whatever was behind that door.

“I’m so sorry for this, D-16,” First Aid cried, “But this is the only thing I could think of.”

“First Aid, what are you-?”

In a flash of red and white, D-16 felt a prick in his neck cabling.

The floor shuddered under his crushing weight.

D-16 scrambled up from the berth, gasping for air. His tanks roiled and his helm felt like it was being crushed.

He braced himself on the edge of the berth, his arms shaking as he continued gasping. Coolant escaped his optics, more from exertion than emotional turmoil.

 Slowly, he lifted his helm up and saw First Aid hunched over a console.

Metal screeched under his clenched servos at the sight of the medic.

That traitor! That weak-willed excuse of a-!

“Patient D-16 suffered sudden system failure and passed away,” First Aid spoke, the words halting the miner from attacking him,  “His frame was taken away shortly after being pronounced dead.”

D-16 slowly stood from the berth as confusion swirled in his thoughts. He glanced down at his chest plates, a memory of Optimus overlaying his frame for a moment. But his chest plates were whole and he was most assuredly not dead.

“First Aid,” he spoke softly.

Closer to the smaller mech, sitting on the edge of the console, was a disabled tracker covered in a film of internal energon. D-16’s right side twinged in pain. His red optics widened as understanding dawned on him.

The medic had given him a chance to live free.

The medic let out a shaky vent and pushed several gleaming shanix to the side with a sniff. 

“May he find refuge in the Allspark. Medic trainee, First Aid, out.” The medic concluded his report but continued to look away from the miner. 

D-16 walked over to First Aid. 

He couldn’t see the medic’s face, but First Aid’s servos, usually so steady and precise despite his surprising strength, shook like a roof panel caught in a storm.

Reaching out a servo, D-16 accepted the shanix.

“Thank you,” he breathed.

And like a ghost, he was gone.

Chapter Text

Prowl’s vision was filled with static snow before his optics fully came online.

Slowly, he got up from a berth and looked around, taking in his surroundings.

He was in a sparsely furnished dark room. Sections of the room were entirely missing, obscured by shadows that writhed and glitched at the edges. His optics passed over these corrupted sections without a second glance. 

A cube of energon sat on a nightstand by the berth and a smaller container by it flickered in and out of existence. Prowl picked up the unstable container and it disappeared. However, his servo stayed fixed in a cupped position while his other servo pried open a lid that wasn’t there. He reached into thin air, pinched two digits together, and brought them to his mouth.

He grimaced at the taste.

But there was nothing there.

A connection was made in the haze of his processor, and he poured the contents of his empty servo into the energon.

Satisfied with his work, he took awhile to figure out how to drink the energon before giving up and letting fiber memory take over.

Energon consumed, his tac net proposed leaving. There was nothing else to be done here.

His vision feed cut out to black. Red error logs screamed through his HUD, illuminating the dark. When his vision shuttered back in, discolored lines slashing through it, he found himself in a kitchenette. 

A young Praxian, uKng45789x_er, who looked similar to Prowl, stood at the sink washing empty energon glasses. The fancy kind that couldn’t be popped out of existence.

At least, Prowl thought he and this Pra#hhh3hher_ looked similar. It was hard to tell now because where the mech’s helm should be was a glitched-out mess of pixels. In fact, parts of Ggg$jsl65:–/-_~_file-corrupted_er_eryuhj’s frame seemed to misalign slightly, like a misprint overlay on cheap flimsi.

Prowl cocked his helm to the side, “Are you my brother?”

The other Praxi-gh25#^ gave him a quizzical look, “Yeah? Always have been?”

Prowl nodded to himself, content that his hypothesis was proven true. He turned around and headed outside. There was nothing more to be accomplished here.

“Prowl, where are you going? Prowl!” His bro6%G_er frantically called out, “Did you have another crash? PROWL!?”

Prowl’s vision whited out.

[ Error. ]

[ Unable to load the rest of memory file sequence 228.45.1101.b. ]

Prowl coughed up dust. His plating creaked ominously as his processor filtered through a flood of red- and orange-level status reports. With a groan, he laid his helm against the rubble and closed his optics.

He hurt everywhere. Like he had been flattened and set on fire at the same time. Just existing was pain.

Shoving the panicking HUD reports into a neat, little compartment in the back of his processor, he began his routine data recovery and assessment protocols. Starting with the baseline file 228.45.1101.b.

Whenever he suffered a tactical-network-induced crash, his processor would freeze on a loop that started and halted jarringly under a strain of input data he was not designed to handle. Eventually, his processor terminates and sends Prowl careening offline until his protocols reboot. This had the negative side effect of corrupting data. The worse the crash, the worse the corruption and area of effect. When he was younger, he experienced the worst crash of his functioning. Every swath of data before file 228.45.1101.b was corrupted beyond recovery. Making this specific sequence his oldest memory, and his baseline for damage control. He now had programs installed to reconstruct and retrieve information. He also possessed basic training in manually putting inputs back together. But he had yet to successfully retrieve anything before 228.45.1101.b.

Prowl grimaced as he reviewed the partially preserved file. The pain of losing the memory of his brother’s face when they were younger hurt just as much as his battered frame, if not more. Broken bodies could be recovered. Corrupted files were more challenging. 

Taking a breath, he forced himself to focus on the present and put his memory problems in the ‘Deal with it Later’ box. His injuries were more pressing. He could chase data ghosts later.

He experimentally moved a limb and winced at the fire that shot up his cabling at the movement. Sucking air through clenched dentae, he slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position. Debris fell off his pauldrons and clattered to the ground. He was lucky he wasn’t dead.

A faint light from high above illuminated the cavernous ruin he found himself in. His spark sank as he scanned his surroundings and saw no hint of Jazz.

He resigned himself to the worst scenario.

“I live!”

Prowl’s helm snapped to the side as Jazz, covered in char and dirt, pranced into view. 

“Not gonna lie, I thought I was a goner. But nope! Woohoo!” The Polyhexian cheered, doing a small dance. 

Then again, Prowl thought ruefully, some mechs have all the luck.

The detective glared at the saboteur from where he lay in the rubble. 

“You look awful,”  said the Praxian, looking like death rolled over.

“Good mornin’ ta you too,” Jazz threw back. “Can ya move?” He cautiously hedged around where the enforcer was slumped.

Prowl rolled his optics.

“I see ya gained a sense of humor,” Jazz glanced around, “Can ya move anythin’ else?”

Prowl gave an unfriendly hand gesture. If his doorwing didn’t feel wrenched out of its socket, he would have added a couple choice flicks.

“Alright then,” Jazz glanced around the dark cavern again, chewing his bottom lip in thought, “What are the chances of ya survivin’ on yer own in yer current condition?”

“ Zero ,” Prowl growled. It was an unfortunate truth.

The saboteur grimaced at that.

“My energon fuel gauge will tick steadily down to empty,” the detective pressed, sensing weakness, “Where I will start to hallucinate and grow weak with hunger. Any creature that calls this place home will be free to rend me limb from limb-”

“Alright! I get it!” Jazz interrupted. “Scrap. Curse my conscience,” he muttered.

That makes two of us.

The sports car rubbed a servo over his faceplates, smearing dirt, “What if I leave ya an energon cube?”

“Still zero but with a longer, more agonizing wait for my inevitable termination.”

“Well, when ya put it like that- wait! No! Nu-uh. I’m goin’ ta leave and save my platin.’ Goodbye!” Jazz resolutely marched off into the dark, never to be seen again.

Prowl was shakily reconnecting components in his arm with the help of an emergency med kit from his subspace when the visored mech grumpily stomped back a groon later.

“Alright, here’s the plan: Fer however long it takes ta get out of here, we are goin’ ta be ‘best-o friend-os’. Kapisch?” Not waiting for a reply, Jazz slung a startled Prowl over his back with an ‘oomph.’

The Praxian bit back a sharp curse as his back components seized and stabbed into his energon lines. 

“Put me down!” He yelled into Jazz’s audial horns.

The Polyhexian jolted from the sound and unceremoniously dumped him back to the ground. Prowl ground his dentae together to keep back a litany of pain-fuelled curses as he clutched at his leg. He had felt something snap.

“Get the med kit,” the detective gasped.

“What?” Jazz asked, rubbing the afflicted audial horn.

“Get the fragging med kit, you glitched slagger, or I will hunt you down until the orn I deactivate!” Prowl blew up.

Jazz scrambled to comply.

The saboteur patched up the detective’s injuries under the irate Praxian’s directions. The medical treatment wouldn't miraculously make Prowl able to move around without pain. But it would ensure he could at least move without debilitating agony hounding every movement or start bleeding out. 

“I apologize for cursing you out earlier,” Prowl spoke, training his gaze on the wreckage of a store as Jazz welded the strut back together. 

The Praxian had been scanning the area with his optics and uninjured doorwing sensors to see if anyone else had fallen. So far, he saw no hint of life. It was deathly quiet.

The saboteur waved the apology away, “Don’t worry about it, mech. I’ve heard worse. Sorry ‘bout droppin’ ya like that.”

“We should proceed the way you headed down earlier,” the detective advised, inspecting his leg, “That tremor seems to have triggered a sinkhole in the compromised structure of the upper layers. Opening up to a series of abandoned sub-level systems. If we are where I estimate it to be, we can access more stable adjacent levels that we can use to scale back to the surface. Our chances of being able to directly climb up from this point are moderate but significantly lowered by the compromised structural integrity and my injuries. The odds of survival where sinkholes are concerned are minimal to none, so we are a low priority for rescue teams if others are trapped under rubble on upper levels. Additionally, we have that ,” Prowl pointed at large cables full of sparking wires that sizzled by a sludgy stream of oil oozing from the rubble, “And the potential of methane pockets being released due to shifting tectonic plates. I’m not interested in getting blown up, are you?”

“Disregard sage advice to stay put and start making tracks,” the musician summarized, “Sounds like a plan,” he grinned cheekily, “Want me to carry ya?”

“I can move under my own power with a mobility aid that we could jimmy-rig from the surrounding wreckage. However, my speed will be half of what you can manage and thus reduce our rate of-.”

“I can drag ya instead if ya want.”

“...I accept your offer of assistance. Thank you.”

Jazz, with grunted effort, lifted the injured mech onto his back. The saboteur secured his arms around the Praxian’s legs, and Prowl, in turn, locked his arms around Jazz’s neck cabling. Careful to mind the other mech’s smaller doorwings.

“Try anything, and I’ll do more than just drop ya,” the saboteur grinned wide enough to show off a dentae incisor.

“Your threat towards a Praxian enforcer is duly noted. Anything else you would like to have used against you in court?”

“I’ll let ya know when I think of some more.”

The two began their trek through the bowels of Praxus. It was slow going as Jazz picked his way through the rubble that had crashed down with them. Stopping every few steps to make sure they were going the right way through the dust that clogged the air and hindered his sight.

A notice pinged on Prowl’s HUD that his internal damage report was ready to be viewed.

According to the scan, a slog of nonvital systems had to be brought back online thanks to getting fried by that megalomaniac spark. This was in addition to physical injuries and minor corrupted files.

Prowl hoped he didn’t see that spark for a long time, as piqued as his interest was. Because he was, frankly, worn out.

He could interrogate Jazz about the spark. The thief had been the one to steal it. But then again, the saboteur had seemed just as surprised as Prowl by what the Copperport Corporation had hidden in an innocuous black box. Furthermore, he doubted the saboteur would be open to discussing his illegal activities, no matter if Jazz was currently helping Prowl.

He began more in-depth scans of the systems that needed to be reestablished. Prioritizing his comms over everything else. While those inspections took place, he turned his processor towards increasing his survival rate by lowering Jazz’s guard and ingratiating the criminal to him.

This was a delicate task that required tactful social skills.

Prowl requested a conversation tree with all the relevant data and parameters he could provide to his tac net. The tac net returned with a failure to create a conversation tree that met Praxian TacOp standards. The reason was insufficient data. Or, as Smokescreen liked to put it, Prowl needed to get out more.

The detective would need to rely on his raw charisma. 

“You came back because you felt bad,” Prowl stated while Jazz scaled large chunks of broken road.

“I have never felt bad for anything in my life!” The Polyhexian refuted, hoisting himself and the detective up on an exposed rebar.

Prowl floundered internally on how to reply to that. 

The silence dragged on while the detective scrambled to think of something .

“Ok, fine,” the thief admitted, “I felt bad. Also, I heard strange noises, and I didn’t want to die alone.”

“What?!” Prowl lurched back, throwing off Jazz’s balance.

“Hey! Are you tryin’ ta get us both killed?” The other mech yelped, scrambling to maintain his hold on the rebar, “That last part was a joke. I have no intention of lettin’ either of us die.”

“Never mind that. What strange noises? Where? When?”

“It was like this skittery scrapin’ sound. I could feel a shift of air on my door wings, too. I felt it past this section up ahead,” he cleared the rebar and vaguely gestured towards the north, “I think it connects to those abandoned sub-levels you were talkin’ about because there’s a gate.”

“What specs are your door wings calibrated to? What is the correspondence rate between your sensor output and actual sensor measurements? What was your reference standard? Imperial Iaconian Systems or Galactic Standard? What do you deem as an acceptable offset?” Prowl rushed out.

“Mech, do ya ask this of everyone who mentions their doorwings? I thought Praxians consider that rude.”

The detective frowned, “I have been informed the same thing. However, the pro of accurately accounting for another’s sensory instruments during operations outweighs the cons of committing a social faux pas. This information is needed for my tac net to work out the most accurate and effective strategies.”

“Then ta accurately answer yer question: I have no idea,” Jazz supplied cheerfully.

“How do you not know?”

“I tune musical instruments fer a livin’, not sensors.”

Prowl pursed his lips, “And signal blockers.”

“Those too.”

Jazz readjusted his grip on Prowl as he cleared the roadblock and silently traversed down a hill of cracked support structures. A misstep on a loose beam sent the saboteur falling on his back with a curse, crushing Prowl in the process. The misstep also dislodged some rocks that tumbled down the hill and collided with bigger chunks of concrete. With a sound like thunder, half the mound of debris collapsed, sending clouds of dust into the air.

The detective had been flattened by the musician’s weight and silently suffered through his broken wing shrieking. A positive was that Jazz was acting as an unwitting shield for him from the dust. Said Polyhexian was currently coughing up a vent.

“There goes- KOFF the neighborhood, koff !” Jazz hacked.

“I hope no one was trapped in there,” Prowl murmured.

“Me too, mech- koff . I doubt we were the only ones caught in the tremor. But I haven’t seen nor heard anyone alive or dead down here. That skittery noise tripped off the gitchy feelin’, so that wasn’t some poor-“ the race car mech broke off in a coughing fit. 

When the fit subsided, he violently cleared his intake and shook his helm. Bracing himself, he stood back up and resumed maneuvering down with Prowl on his back.

After clearing another mound of debris, they finally got to the towering gate that Jazz spoke of. 

The gate rose high above the duo, a ghastly stark thing edged with rust that interconnected seamlessly with its surroundings. A vale of clear crystals, like suspended tears, hung from the top cross beam, per Praxian tradition. 

Prowl remembered standing guard here during the construction of the posts. At the time, he had been waiting for a reassignment from TacOps to standard-beat cop. But until then, he was to ensure the gate was completed without interference. To enforce the rule of the Praxian Consul.

What are these rules for? A phantom of Prowl’s conscience whispered.

It’s for control, the enforcer frowned, it was always about power.

Just as Jazz described, the towering access doors were welded shut. Defeating the entire purpose of a gate, but that had been the Consul’s orders. 

That's why a hole was blasted through the metal. Gang signs and other graffiti were spray-painted on the doors. Prowl recognized several symbols, such as the intertwining lightning bolts that the Chargers favored, and could see where rival gangs kept spray painting over each other's signs in a never-ending dance of dominance.

He shifted uneasily in Jazz’s hold. If the gang presence here was greater than he anticipated, he would need to be careful.

Jazz approached the forced opening and crouched down to clear it. After some shuffled maneuvering, they were on the other side.

The musician’s vocoder clicked in shock while his door wings flicked into a high ‘v’, smacking Prowl in the face, “I thought ya said this place was abandoned , not a warzone .”

The detective looked around Jazz’s doorwing with a frown, “This doesn’t follow the mathematical models for metropolitan decay. It was…bad, but not to this degree.”

“I gotta set ya down fer a sec. Yer heavy,” The Polyhexian puffed.

Unlike last time, Prowl was lowered to the ground with care.

Jazz took out a couple cubes of energon, handing one to the enforcer, who accepted it gratefully. His fuel gauge had been getting too close to fumes for comfort.

Rations in hand, they observed the desolated land before them.

A field of broken rubble and flattened buildings stretched out before them. Distant structures stood as solemn sentinels among the slain, wreathed in the grey vapors that slithered through cracks and crevasses. Everything was tinted grey from the dust that swirled up from an unseen zephyr. Wisps of blue light dotted the landscape.

“Do ya think those lights out there,” Jazz dropped his voice below a hush and crouched beside Prowl, “are spark ghosts?”

“No. But we won’t know for certain until we get closer,” the detective whispered back.

“Closer? Mech, ya don’t mess with ghosts. ‘Specially ones with unhappy ends.” The saboteur leaned forward and brought up a servo to shield his visor. The Polyhexian’s doorwings flicked up and angled around, taking in sensory data.

Prowl’s doorwings could also do that. Y’know, when they weren’t curb stomped by wannabe gangsters, electrocuted by a maverick spark, and thrown down a hole by Primus.

“What happened here?” Jazz murmured.

“Compulsory eviction.”

“‘Compulsory eviction?’ How would you know? Looks more like people’s lives got blasted apart.”

Prowl quietly finished off his ration and reached into his subspace.

“Whoa! What is that?!” Jazz hissed as he jumped away from the detective, servos up in a metallikoto strike gesture.

“An acid rifle. I’m using it for the scope,” Prowl adjusted said scope and peered through the lens. Slowly turning the magnification and focus knobs until he had a clear view. 

“Ya could accomplish that with binoculars. What do ya pack so much heat fer?”

“Habit.” 

The acid rifle was a relic from the detective’s TacOps days. Officially, he wasn’t supposed to have it. However, with the political fallout surrounding his demotion, no one had time to check whether or not a couple asset release forms were processed.

Jazz looked out at the devastated neighborhood and back at Prowl with the rifle, “I’m startin’ ta connect a couple dots here about what Praxus considers a ‘reasonable amount of force.’”

The detective snapped his helm towards Jazz, “We didn’t do this.”

“Then what did ya do?” The saboteur’s visor narrowed.

“We protected people.”

“Where are all the people then, O’ Great Protector?”

Standing up on unsteady pedes, Prowl shouldered his rifle.

This area brought back bad memories.

“You’ll be glad to know that those ‘ghost lights’ are actually crystals,” Prowl deflected.

Jazz wasn’t deterred, “Why did people have to leave their homes behind? Were they not good enough fer ya higher caste types?”

The detective turned on Jazz with a sharp click of his pedes. His healing welds stung from the precise movement.

“There was a riot. The enforcers were called in to restore order. So we did. Any more questions?” He spoke crisply.

Jazz gazed cooly at the enforcer before him, “No, sir,” he mocked a salute.

“Good,” Prowl shouldered his rifle and took a step, intent on continuing their trek.

The ground lurched out from underneath him. The Praxian hardly had time to process what was happening before he found himself pinned to the ground. His rifle was aimed at his helm while one of Jazz’s black fingers hovered over the trigger. The digit rested on the gleaming, lethal metal with the steady professionalism of an experienced marksman.

“Actually, that was a lie. I have plenty more questions,” Jazz’s voice was soft, deadly, “But ya already knew I was a liar, didn’t ya? Like recognizes like.”

The saboteur pressed the barrel tip below Prowl’s chin, forcing the Praxian to tilt his head.

“So tell me, mech,” Jazz said lazily, “Why were these people forced to leave their homes?”

Prowl batted the red alerts down on his HUD and cut the connection to his wailing doorwing with gritted dentae. Prowl’s tac net raced to analyze the situation and cross-examine each gesture, glyph, and glance the saboteur ever gave to chart a path through these troubled seas. As fast as Jazz had disarmed him, his tac net came up with several plans with a 90% or higher survival rate.

This was a check, not a checkmate.

And Prowl was not above psychological warfare.

“You have a gentle spark.”

Jazz jolted at the unexpected reply.

“What is with ya and nonsequiturs? And for the record, I’m hard as nails!” The saboteur argued.

“I know. You certainly punch like it,” Prowl groused.

A smirk broke out on Jazz’s face, “Heh, that was just a love tap.”

“Like pits it was. You broke my face!”

“I’ll do much worse if you don’t answer my questions.”

The detective shifted his gaze past the barrel tip to Jazz’s blue visor. He took a steadying vent, trying to recall the core of the hostage negotiation training he had received: People just want to be understood.

“It must be frustrating. To see caste injustice wherever you go.”

“You have no idea, mech,” the saboteur opticked him wearily.

“You’re right. But I know what it’s like to be turned on by people you trust. To be on top of the world one second and then despised the next for being yourself.”

Jazz frowned and said nothing. Prowl pressed on.

“If I remember correctly, you hail from Polyhex, right?” The detective asked casually.

He turned up his palms to make his body language appear open. Like they were back in that cafe and not miles below the surface, one wrong decision away from killing each other.

“Yeah, I’m from Polyhex. Northside.”

“Were you ever in a riot?”

Jazz grinned, “This visor ain’t just fer looks. It’s prescription. Used to not wear one.”

“That sounds vexing to have to pay to see just because of someone else’s actions.”

The saboteur shrugged, his finger still resting on the trigger, “I get by. Other people have lost more ta the functionalists than I have. At least I can still play music.”

Prowl nodded as much as he could with the rifle still lodged under his chin.

“That’s why you care so much about what happened to these people. You know what it’s like to have your world upended and stolen. It’s noble to want justice.”

“If ya start lecturin’ me on ethics, this is gonna be a short conversation.”

That had been a potential plan. But it had a 20% chance of success so his tac net had promptly thrown it out. The current course of action wasn’t feeling any more successful at the moment, however.

“If you would let me finish.”

“Ya’ve barely said anything,” the rifle pushed into the detective’s face. Hard.

Prowl glared at Jazz, “I was giving context to- ugh, forget it.”

“Earlier, you mentioned a fire and a riot?” The saboteur impatiently prompted.

Prowl clicked his dentae. He had to be careful in how he told this story. If he lied, Jazz would know. 

“Yes,” the Praxian finally responded, “But you have to understand, while damage was done by the enforcers, we didn’t do this. This level used to be the surface of Praxus. It became derelict when new infrastructure was implemented, and roadways were built that diverted traffic and commerce away from this area. A vulnerable target for criminal groups to move in and set up shop.

“There was a rash of fires committed by arsonists during a turf war between the Chargers and the GTR Group. Enforcers were called in to deter further vandalism or harassment to the residents and neighboring sub-levels. This move increased tensions, however.”

“Ya don’t say.”

He ignored the sarcasm, “After an enforcer was killed in the area by a gang-affiliated mech, the Chief of the Praxian Enforcers and the Consul of Praxus wanted to save face in the polity and in the international community,” Prowl hesitated for a moment, “This was in the wake of the Dead End riots in Polyhex.”

Predictably, Jazz’s face clouded over. His servo that wasn’t holding the rifle touched his visor, “Go on.”

“Not wanting to fall into the unrest that Polyhex had gone through,” Prowl spoke slowly, “and wanting to circumvent caste system violence due to the neighborhood having a high population of traditionally oppressed lower caste Cybertronians, The chief and consul brought in experienced tacticians to handle the issue. These specialists were given an overall objective: complete victory.”

“And ya accomplished this through total war?”

“Tank formers were recruited into the force as a political piece and for practical applications.”

“Did you flatten houses with the army?” 

“Only one.”

“Only one?!”

“Praxus’s enforcer had steadily become militarized over the vorns under the chief and his predecessor. Enlisting actual military units was the next logical step. It was a show of force. Which, again, escalated tensions.” Prowl rushed on before Jazz could let out another scathing but accurate remark, or worse, shoot him, “Residents began to push back against the assault. The consul lied to the media about how bad the situation was. There were shootouts, fights, and crimes like looting occurring almost hourly some orns. But the tide was turning against the gangs that had taken root in the area.

“Finally, the consul issued an executive order to clear out the area. The situation had become a stain on his legacy and image. Civilians were paid the worth of their homes and left to figure out where to relocate. 

“The area was sealed off, and many people lost their jobs in the fallout of it. The chief resigned, and the consul declined to run for reelection. Efforts have been made to reform the enforcers to stop this from happening again.”

There was a new chief and a new consul now. New policies were put into place. Certain ones had been ripped out to aid in demilitarizing the enforcers. It worked a small amount. The enforcers were still militarized, evidenced by their strict hierarchy system. 

Paperwork had increased to ensure greater accountability. A side effect of this is that enforcers had less time to be on patrol and be seen by the public, to build trust with the ones they had sworn to protect. Ironically, it further alienated the public from the enforcers and enforcers to the public. 

“I see now. I misjudged you.”

“And?”

“You’re not a functionalist. You’re an idiot .”

Jazz smacked Prowl with the rifle's barrel before backing away, shaking his helm in disgust. He tossed the weapon down to the downed mech’s side.

“Good thing the rifle wasn’t loaded,” Prowl sighed, rubbing his helm.

Jazz whipped around, “Ya let me threaten ya when the blasted thing wasn’t even loaded!?”

“To smooth out potential difficulties further down the road. Our odds of survival are higher with us working together than against each other. You needed reassurance I was not a functionalist, and I gave it. Also, it would be improper gun safety to have a loaded weapon I wasn’t intending on using.”

“Why do you carry it around then?”

“In case of emergencies.” And nostalgia , “If a shot was fired, I would have to file five different forms to account for it.” And probably lose custody of it.

“If all yer plans are like this, then it would behoove me to go solo to ensure a higher chance of survival. I reckon my odds would increase by 50%.”

Prowl twitched, “Are you mocking me?”

“Teasin’, Prowler, teasin’.”

The Praxian frowned, “But you just called me ‘prowler.’”

“Yeah? Like a nickname?”

“It’s an insult. ‘Prowler’ is another term for a criminal. In the force, we use 10-14 as code for a prowler call, someone loitering around and suspected of criminal intent.”

Why else would his hallucinatory conscience call him a criminal? If not to remind him of his past actions and the thin line separating Prowl from corrupt enforcers like Barricade, or gangsters like the Chargers. To remind him that he had callously ruined lives in singular service of an objective: absolute victory. He deserved to be called a criminal but he wouldn’t let it stop him.

Stop him from what? Ruining more lives?

From seeing justice carried out. From helping others. You need to sacrifice a few pieces to win the game, Prowl argued back in his helm.

Great, now he had another facet of himself to quarrel with. Having a glitch just wasn’t enough.

“I’ll hafta think of somethin’ else, ‘ey?”

“Prowl is suitably shortened enough.”

“How about Prowl the Logarithmic? Call ya Log fer short.”

“Or Prowl Who Just Wants to be Called Prowl.”

“Memo recieved, Prowl Who Just-.”

“Prowl. Just. Prowl. Copy?”

“Copy,” Jazz mocked another cheerful salute.

Prowl didn’t understand how the mech could switch so quickly from threatening him with his own gun to teasing him. It was strenuous to make sense of the constant whiplash in demeanor. Too many outlying data points and not enough correlation.

“Aren’t you mad?”

“Don’t misunderstand me: I’m furious. What ya’ll did was beyond stupid. Ya messed up badly and had innocent people pay the price. Worst, ya couldn’t face it and hid it away. Was there no one in that room of tacticians with you that had any common sense? That protested against such an inane idea?”

Prowl’s silence was deafening.

Jazz dragged a servo down his faceplates, muttering to himself.

“Listen, I know ya got demoted fer what ya did,” Jazz gave another lazy grin as Prowl twitched at the revelation, “I did my research, mech. Not my problem ya didn’t do yer homework on me. Although, I doubt ya’d find anything on ‘Jazz’ beyond a list of gigs. And maybe a cover or two of Drops of Luna 1. ” He shrugged, looking unbothered amidst the grey wasteland. However, from the careful and efficient way Jazz hid his true self and feelings, Prowl doubted the saboteur was as unfazed as he pretended, “I knew ya were in TacOps but not much else besides that. Add yer dodgy behavior in this place and I had ta assess yer character. And my assessment: Yer a fraggin’ moron.”

“Thanks,” Prowl deadpanned, pushing himself up, wincing at the new bruises on top of both his current and old ones. He subspaced the rifle.

“Make no mistake, I can’t trust a self-righteous enforcer. Just not possible.”

“Oh,” his odds of survival were quickly trickling to zero.

“I can, however, maybe trust a moron who lost his way in pursuit of an ideal and is trying to do better,” Jazz looked pointedly at the enforcer.

Prowl swallowed, “I can’t trust a criminal.”

“Fair.”

“But I can maybe trust a fool who has also lost his way figuring out who he is and is trying to do better.”

Jazz took a couple steps over to where Prowl crouched.

“Truce?” The saboteur extended his servo.

The former tactical operative accepted it, “Truce.”

Jazz pulled Prowl the rest of the way up. Smacking dust off the battered officer, the Polyhexian gave Prowl a shoulder ride once more.

“Let’s get out of here. This place is crampin’ my style,” Jazz started walking, breaking up the grey mist.

Prowl didn’t answer. He had fallen asleep.

Prowl was concerned he suffered another crash when he woke up. His protocols dispatched scans to assess the damage to his processor, but they turned out identical to the previous crash’s scan. Baffling the Praxian further. Had he been so tired that he fell asleep? 

“Rise and shine, Prowl!” A jovial voice yelled right next to Prowl’s audials.

He jerked away from the voice with a muffled curse, making his bruised protoform twinge painfully. He overcompensated moving back to ease the pain, which strained another injury, and so on and so forth until he was lying on the ground, resigned to an existence of agony where he could only focus on keeping his vents as shallow as possible without overheating or making his back components seize and pinch his cabling.

“We continue to function,” Prowl seethed through the twinging of his cracked components.

His watery blue optics roved over what he could see supine. The two errant travelers were still at the abandoned city level. However, they had reached small outcroppings of crumbling walls and twisted metal beams that broke up the monotony of a flattened wasteland. Jazz had stopped for a break behind one of the few walls. The mist was thicker and hovered in creamy wisps. From where he lay on the ground, it nearly covered the enforcer like a blanket. Cool to his sensors, nearly entrancing Prowl with its complex forms as an unseen breeze shifted the vapors.

“What happened while I was out?” The detective grunted, pulling himself back up.

“Nothin’ much. Ya were right about the lights bein’ crystals. I didn’t dare touch ‘em though,” Jazz shuddered, ”I choose life.” He flicked his smaller door wings up, “And yer sure all the residents were cleared outta here?”

“As far as I know, yes. But that doesn’t mean people didn’t come back.”

Jazz wasn’t comforted.

“There must be access to the surface from here,” Prowl continued. “There is a breeze, but I can't pinpoint where it’s coming from. My door wing sensors have sustained too much damage to accurately locate an origin.”

“I think I got ya covered with an escape route,” Jazz smiled. “When I stopped ‘cause you were gettin’ heavy again, I saw this concentration of light over there,” he pointed towards an outcropping of more intact buildings farther from their current position. 

An almost imperceptible column of light streamed down from warped cables and support beams from an upper level.

Prowl furrowed his brow and looked back at where they had come from. The area there was flat. Yet the farther they got from the gate, the more intact the buildings became.

“This place was bombed out,” Prowl murmured.

“By who? I’m givin’ you the benefit of the doubt here, Prowl,” Jazz said, resting on his heels.

“When I was last in this area there were still buildings standing.”

“Except for the one house you flattened.”

Prowl tactfully ignored the quip, “There were discussions about turning this section into a public park. But that was never realized. The decay pattern observed within the area of effect suggests the use of a weapon. But weapons beg the question of who was wielding them and against who? A criminal syndicate hashing it out with a rival? Primus knows mercenaries and other despots flock in from the Rust Narrows of Nyon to Praxus every orn. Perhaps someone was using the area for private weapons testing. An abandoned area looking worse for wear won’t raise suspicions. Either way, a bomb may explain the compromised structural integrity of the levels leading up to the surface from here.”

“Ya also gotta consider that whoever used it might still be down here,” the saboteur mused.

“Keep moving?”

“Keep moving.”

Jazz slung Prowl onto his back with a huff and started hiking to the distant beams of light.

Interestingly, the detective noted, the further they got from the epicenter of the hypothetical bomb, not only were there more intact structures, but the number of crystals emitting the soft blue light diminished. Jazz had to turn on his searchlights to chart his path through. He kept them dim to avoid unwanted attention from unknown strangers lurking down here in the dark, but bright enough to not stumble and crush Prowl again.

The detective was skimming through his databases to find the map of the area he knew he had saved when he was called in to handle the riots. 

“The ‘Dead End’ in Polyhex wasn’t always called ‘Dead End,’ y’know,” Jazz said, sidestepping a loose metal panel.

“What was it called before?” Prowl asked, pausing his search for the map.

“It was a nice place called Aurum. Low key, built along an ancient river that connects the Rust Sea to the Praerorus Wharf. The vibes were always just right. You could find artisans everywhere with little booths set up. Or a band playing around any ol’ corner. Music flowed on the wind, and the energon was poured just as freely,” Jazz smiled sadly.

“But, when the functionalists came ta power, they displaced countless people. Most of ‘em ended up in Aurum. These ‘untouchables,’ as those political yahoos like to call them, weren’t inherently bad people. Just mechs like you and me. However, wherever misery, pain, and hate consolidate, more follows. Didn’t help that enforcers were breathin’ down your neck every second. Cinchin’ the noose, as it were. Almost overnight, the town became a cesspit of mercenaries, tweakers, and any other dark thing ya can think of. Takin’ advantage of mechs already down on their luck. Southern Polyhex is only a polity away from the Rust Narrows of Nyon ourselves, ya see,” his steps slowed.

“That wasn’t the worst thing. Ya would think ‘low caste’ would have sympathy for fellow outcasts. Band together and all that. Nah, they took advantage of each other just like anyone else. Brotherhood doesn’t mean much when that’s standing between you and death,” Jazz sighed, “Soon enough, the name Aurum was forgotten. Everyone calls it ‘Dead End’ now.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Prowl fumbled over the words. He didn’t know what to say to such a somber tale. How could anything he say be enough? “I’m sorry that happened. What prompted you to talk about it?”

“This place reminds me of the Dead End: The heaviness in the air that presses your spirits low. Heavier than any physical weight. Wandering through a fog and wondering if you would feel the sunshine again. If you were even worthy to feel it.”

The detective was still unsure about how to navigate this conversation to give sufficient support and comfort. Maybe this was like an infected wound? Where you have to bleed the miasma out before it began to heal? From what the Praxian had observed, if nothing else, the musician needed to get the situation in Polyhex off his chest.

“I heard charity initiatives were being implemented to relieve the suffering?” Prowl asked.

“There was a clinic run by the crankiest doctor you’ve ever met,” Jazz smiled at the memory, “He patched up my optics best he could and gave me this visor. I don’t know about any other initiatives. I high-tailed it out of Polyhex shortly afterward and never looked back.”

“Even though it was for your safety, it's awful to have to leave your home like that.”

“A part of me died that day,” the musician confessed, “Yer a good conversationalist. Ever thought of being a therapist?”

“ No ,” Prowl emphatically denied.

Besides, he was pretty sure that Jazz was lonely and would get the same results talking to anyone else. Probably better results, to be honest. But all the Polyhexian had down here in the pits was Prowl.

They stopped and rested a couple more times in the grey wastes. Jazz checked Prowl’s wounds and scrounged up a nanite booster from the recesses of his own subspace to use on the worst of the breakage. The booster had been wrapped in crumpling flimsi that nearly deteriorated to dust at the slightest touch.

When they were sufficiently rested, they continued walking and finally reached the outcropping of buildings that the pillar of light touched upon.

That’s when they found the first bodies.

The two travelers hadn’t realized they were walking amongst corpses at first. When a Cybertronian dies, their paint turns gunmetal grey. And in this washed-out area, nothing possessed color. The deceased frames blended in with the wreck and ruin. A fair amount of frames weren’t whole. Seemingly ripped to shreds by weapon fire and preyed upon by scavengers. 

“Put me down,” Prowl commanded.

Jazz didn’t answer, transfixed by a dead mech lying on the cracked sidewalk outside of a storefront. Most of the frame had deteriorated into rust, leaving only a few recognizable features.

“Jazz, put me down!” Prowl repeated.

The saboteur snapped out of his trance long enough to hurry and set the Praxian down.

Prowl proceeded to vomit partially-consumed energon.

With a shaky servo, he wiped away saliva and involuntary tears. He gathered his wits and turned up the power on his tac net. He needed to focus.

The musician walked to the dead mech, “I know this guy.”

“Yeah?” Prowl cringed at the acidic taste in his mouth.

“He was at a gig of mine a week ago. Came up to talk to me once it was over,” he crouched down by the fallen mech, “Nice guy. Big fan of the Staniz group, Pious Fools.” He reached out a black servo, “He said he was gonna come to the next gig if he had time,” the servo hovered over blackened optics that stared unseeingly past the musician, “He works long hours as a salary mech, y’see? But he’s up fer a promotion,” a note of desperation edged his voice.

“Jazz,” Prowl warned.

“I know,” the servo retracted, and Jazz’s voice leveled back out, “Don’t know how they died or what rust infection I’ll get from closin’ his optics. Kindness is only gonna kill me. I know.”

They left behind the mech on the sidewalk.

There were more fallen who lined the streets, laid in doorways, and rusted away in the path leading to the light. Prowl and Jazz traveled in a somber daze. They averted their optics from the horrid sight wherever they could, in reverence of the dead and to spare themselves.

None of this makes sense , Prowl scowled, this area has been sealed off for vorns. No one should be down here in this- this warzone . Especially not a salary mech.

It was with great relief that they reached the base of their escape. The light that streamed down past crumbling steel beams and large cables was weak from the dust in the air. Prowl would need to get his filters replaced after this.

“Are ya up for this? It’s more or less a straight shot from here. Yer still injured,” Jazz asked.

“I can manage,” Prowl replied, “It’s you who insists on carrying me. Are you up for this?”

The saboteur shrugged, jostling his passenger, “Let’s get out of here.”

Jazz stepped on the fractured piece that rose up from the sub-level and into the upper level where the light originated. The rusted metal, combined with the steep angle, made for a troublesome climb. Components of the makeshift bridge groaned and clicked. A couple panels even fell off when Jazz tentatively tapped them to test their sturdiness. Prowl's weight further threw off the Polyhexian’s center of gravity. His black pedes would occasionally slip, and he would have to quickly correct himself to avoid sliding back down or falling off. The higher they climbed, the smaller the empty shells of buildings became and the ground receded further into the mists.

But the light to the outside was stronger the further they went. Giving them the reassurance to keep pressing on over the maw of death.

“Jazz, you can put me down. I can walk well enough,” Prowl argued after another slip.

“Nah, I’m good, I’m good,” Jazz reassured as he carefully traversed a thinner section where most of the panels had fallen asunder. 

The beam to cross was smaller than Jazz’s pedes. One good breeze could knock them off and send them spiraling to join the fallen.

When they crossed the section, Prowl huffed a breath in relief. He could feel Jazz’s vents doing the same.

The bridge led to a tunnel that fed through an intact cylinder: remains of a hydraulic system. A mech of average build would have to crouch to enter. That wasn’t even taking into consideration how they would be able to climb up.

Jazz let out a soft swear as he poked his helm into the opening of the cylinder, “This is not gonna be easy. The sides are smooth, and it’s a severe angle. Hard to find any purchase or holds to use and I don’t have anything to make anchors with.”

“There are two of us,” Prowl pointed out, “We could climb back to back, using our pedes to move us up. This would create enough tension to hold us steady. If we coordinate, we can ascend with minimal difficulty.”

“I feel like ya made that up. Also, yer injured, remember? Because I feel like ya keep forgettin’ that bit.” 

Prowl silently judged him.

“I can feel the judgment. Yer safety is a legitimate concern.”

Prowl silently judged him harder.

“Alright, I want to get out of here as badly as you do,” Jazz rolled back his pauldrons and set Prowl down on his pedes, “Let’s do this. What do we got to lose, ‘ey?”

The detective made sure to dial his pain receptors down as far as he could. The hold he placed on the receptors wouldn’t last forever. Eventually, his protocols would override it to keep him within acceptable parameters. When it broke, it would hit him like a truck former. But it would be enough to get them out and to the proper medical attention.

Back to back, careful of their respective doorwings, they interlocked their arms. On the count of three, they began the arduous climb.

The cylinder echoed with their labored vents. 

Prowl focused on putting one pede in front of the other. Praying to Primus that the welds would hold for a bit longer. He would make it. He would make it back home. He would see his brother again.

His cabling felt like it was on fire. Prowl ignored it, focused on the objective. Everything else was secondary.

He took another step but hadn’t timed it in sync with Jazz’s and slipped.

There was only air to catch him.

Prowl scrambled for purchase once more. He panted harshly as he re-established the tension that held them aloft. But now they were at a skewed angle, with Jazz higher than Prowl. Putting more pressure on the detective’s wounds.

“Are you alright?” Jazz asked, “Gah, my fuel pump stopped workin’ fer a second there.”

“Just…just keep climbing,” Prowl struggled to say.

Prowl’s legs were shaking now, but he refused to stop. They were so close, the light was within reach. With a determination that focused his processor, he shouldered the burden and kept climbing.

“Wait, wait!” Jazz called above, shaking him from his one-track focus, “Prowl, stop.”

“What is it?”

“Prowl,” the Polyhexian spoke softly, “There’s no opening.”

“What? What do you mean? Is there something blocking the way? I have some acid pellets I can give you-”

“No, Prowl,” Jazz cut him off, “There is no opening and no sunlight. It’s a bunch of those stupid spirit crystals. I steered ya wrong. I’m so sorry.”

Ice in his lines, Prowl angled his body as best he could to see what Jazz was talking about.

There, growing innocuously, was a large cluster of blue crystals softly emitting light.

They sat on the steps of what remained of a courthouse after the escape route turned out to be a dead end.

Prowl fumed as he planned possible routes and analyzed the terrain of a bombed-out city block that should not exist. He dismissed every plan his tac net offered up in mounting frustration. His servos flexed in spastic rhythms while he bounced his leg. Ignoring the strain on his weakened welds. His cold fury drowned out the near-crippling pain overtaking his frame. The only thing keeping him together was spite and Jazz’s first aid skills.

“Maybe…? No… chances are too small…blast it all…” the detective muttered a storm to himself.

Jazz, meanwhile, remained oddly quiet. The musician had found a broken shovel on their walk back and was currently tinkering with the dilapidated tool. A single steel wire in hand and a cytar bridge alongside other miscellaneous items spread out to the musician’s side. 

Neither mech had talked to each other since climbing back down. 

“The mechs at the top of the caste systems favor specific music forms over others,” Jazz broke the silence, pinning the wire down.

“Uh-huh,” Prowl replied, not paying close attention. Too caught up in wrestling against the designs of fate that had it out for him.

“The functionalist government likes slower speeds with strict tempo giusto metronome adherence and a singular thematic style. They, heh, they mechanized music,” the musician let out a bitter laugh at the irony, testing the tautness of the wire, “They retroacted compositions from the past ta fit their narrative. After all, their way is the only correct way, right?” He snapped the wire, making him curse and pull out a replacement, “No music form is better than others. It’s all taste. With slower speeds, intricate details and characters can be revealed. But the government wants everythin’ marchin’ ta a beat they control. Every note chained ta a metronome. No feelin’. No improvisation. Do it ta the letter or get thrown out. There’s no soul. Funny ta think that musicians were debatin’ whether or not 170 beats per minute was crazy or in. Now, no one gets a say.

“So here I am in the ashes of a city that’s not my own. My tools of rebellion: a rusty shovel and some broken keys,” he lifted the shovel cytar. 

His audience: a broken building and desecrated corpses.

Jazz sighed and leaned back on the steps, his visor dimming as he closed his optics. The musician’s chest plates rose up and down in a controlled rhythm.

Taking the cue, Prowl focused on his own breathing and tried to slow it down. Reining in the harsh snarls to more sedate breathing. Gradually, his leg stopped bouncing, and his servos curled into loose fists.

“Why are you making an instrument out of a shovel?” Prowl asked.

“There’s been a tune on my processor since that ‘quake hit. I hope that gettin’ it out, recreatin’ it, will help me process all of this ,” he waved a servo in the air. 

No need to ask what ‘ this’ means.

“And,” he continued, “I wanna stick it to the mech in charge.”

Prowl couldn’t help it: he laughed. His strained sides hated him for it.

Emboldened by the response, Jazz twisted around so he was lying on the steps and grinned at the detective, “I’ve got a theory about that maniac spark from earlier.”

Prowl chuckled into a servo, “What is it?”

“Alright, hear me out: what if that’s a sparkling?”

“No!” The Praxian yelled, his uninjured wing shooting straight up in an affronted point, “No, no, no .”

“ I know it sounds crazy-”

“It’s imbecilic, is what it is! You got that from a trashy holodrama, didn’t you? Don’t tell me you’re a fan of Love at Midnight. ”

Jazz shrugged, looking innocent, “Flamewar is an excellent pick for the main lead, alright?”

“Of all the illogical contrivances,” Prowl strangled the air, “ Sparklings! Do you want to know how sparklings became a concept? Some writer with his helm in the stars and not down to Cybertron saw that organics have a larva stage in their life cycle and thought, ‘hmm, what if we had that?’ Never mind we are a different species! At most, the closest equivalent would be ‘mechling’ or ‘new forge.’ Not that ,” he shuddered.

“Yer too caught up on the technicalities, mech. It’s the yearnin’. The symbolism. The big ol' optics on cute wittle faces. It’s seeing a manifestation of your favorite couple’s love!”

“What couple would make a murderous sparkling like that then!?”

“Now, hear me out: Unicron.”

“Unicron?”

“Unicron. The Chaos Bringer himself. And that’s how the spark can survive without a frame.”

“You propose that a disembodied spark, set on murdering us specifically, and becoming emperor of Cybertron, is a literal spawn of Unicron!?” 

Part of Prowl is ticked off at the jump, no, leaps in logic. The other part recognized the distraction for what it was and couldn’t stay too mad at seeing Jazz’s smiling face.

“Well, ya have that tac net of yers. What does it say about it?”

Prowl was silent for a moment.

“Well?”

“...There’s a ten percent chance.”

“I rest my case.”

“It’s a chance. A small one.”

“But it’s not zero,” Jazz grinned.

Prowl facepalmed. Hard. But despite the annoyance, he was entertained. Good thing his servo was currently hiding a small smile.

“Let’s get back to getting out of here,” Prowl sobered up, “There’s a highway to the west of this block that bypasses several sub-levels and connects straight to the surface according to the map from my TacOps days. However, I fear the data has been corrupted though. Not all the locations and streets line up one to one.”

“Like what?”

“This courthouse is supposed to be over there,” he pointed east, “near the downtown area. Not here in the banking district,” he gestured at another building. 

“However,” Prowl continued, “I am fairly confident that the general layout is enough to get us by.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jazz nodded, “How are yer injuries? I think there’s still a pain blocker or two in the med kit.”

“That would be greatly appreciated.”

After administering the med patches and checking on healing injuries, Jazz, with practiced ease, shouldered Prowl’s weight and resumed their trek through the underworld.

Skitter skitter.

Jazz froze up, “That’s the noise. That’s the skittery noise. That’s why I came back to get you. It’s here. It’s here. It’s still here!” He hissed.

Slowly, they turned around to see what new horrors were in store for them this time.

Chapter Text

Being legally dead was surprisingly limiting.

Once First Aid’s fraudulent report was processed, D-16 (according to the government) was officially offline. It was odd to know that in the eyes of the government, he needed to be recorded to exist legally.

This revelation had him sitting in a bar for almost an entire orn, contemplating the nature of existence: Did a pulsing spark mean anything? How did Primus count their existence? Did different caste mechs receive a different count? What proved Primus’s existence to them?

He eventually left after the bartender threatened to throw him out if he didn’t stop bothering other patrons with his existential crisis and order something.

Back to the matter at hand: no documentation meant he couldn’t apply for a regional shuttle pass, and Kaon was far away by pede. He would need to pass through the Rust Sea, cross the Tarn-Peptex bridge, somehow get past the walled city of Peptex with forged documentation, and enter the hard-to-navigate underworld of Kaon.

Thankfully, where being dead failed him, D-16 had a fistful of shanix to ease the way. He kept guard over the gift from First Aid and shrewdly stretched the currency as far as he could to procure energon. 

Unfortunately, this fistful wasn’t enough to afford transportation without a pass. The cost of international tickets, shuttle, train, or otherwise, made his fuel pump plummet. It would take a bit longer, but he did have his alt mode’s set of wheels he could use. But that didn’t solve the issue of getting stopped by border patrols without proper documentation. The thought of crossing through checkpoints overseen by armed military patrol units made his already troubled pump crumple in on itself.

In the mines, whispered in silence, there were stories of contacts willing to forge documents. D-16 had no idea who these connections were or how to contact a Cybertronian who knew how to code and encrypt less-than-legal IDs.

How did you find these people? Go up to a shady guy in a back alley? Sit on a bench by another person and exchange a phrase that was a passkey to a cipher encoded within a newspad? 

D-16 had no clue and not much time. The runaway indentured servant needed to get out of Tarn before this was for naught. The fake death helped to prevent an active search for him. But it didn’t stop enforcers from opticking him when he passed by, a miner far from the worksite. Should an opportunistic mech catch a whiff of what he was, he would be turned in for an award and have a drill back in his servos faster than he could blink. And that was the optimistic scenario.

He recharged under the cover of bridges and in alleyways with one optic open.

In search of answers and the wisdom of shadier characters, he eventually found himself at a sleepy train station early one morning. Golden rays of Cybertron’s sun, Hadean, peeked through cracks between the buildings and distant mountain ranges. Sending long shadows in the depot for the former miner to conceal himself.

Hidden amongst the intersection of tracks and platforms, he stumbled upon a rest spot: a secluded area for a transient individual to recharge in peace. Names in cut up glyphs reserved for nicknames were etched into the walls, an improvised ledger. Additionally, while hidden on the outside, it offered a perfect view of the comings and goings of trains. 

D-16 settled in and waited. 

The glaring celestial body rose higher in the sky, and workers lumbered in to begin the orn’s duties.

He watched in fascination from his hiding spot as blue and yellow titans, so tall they blocked Hadean’s light and made the ground shake with their steps alone, leisurely stretched before shifting into powerful locomotives through a brisk set of transformation sequences  Some mechs, average in build but minuscule next to the sheer size of the train teams, ran checks and portered in cargo cars loaded with ore to be coupled. A specific worker, the conductor, saluted the train he would work with before entering the transformed mech’s control center to perform more tests. 

On the far side of the tracks, a considerable distance from the bustle, a gaggle of hoodlums scrambled over a fence and hurried to the steel rails. D-16 watched as they fussed with the metal before scurrying back to avoid detection.

An echoing trumpet signaled the train’s all clear. The locomotive began chugging forward with its attached cargo. The ground shook as the iron beast charged forward at a breakneck pace. Saffron sparks showered off sturdy steel. The silver mech thought he heard the train let out a couple whoops.

What the hoodlums had been planning became evident when the train passed over the tampered spot and light refracted off items zinging through the air at a high velocity. A loud ting! hailed a piece of metal embedding itself in the wall by D-16’s head. He pried out the curious item: a completely flattened shanix cred. Had he been several degrees closer, he would have had to take a trip to the clinic for severe helm injuries. A lovely way to reunite with First Aid.

When the rest of the train and its cargo left the station, the hoodlums laughed from where they perched on the fence like cybirds. Flattening random items via locomotion was the aim of their game. One of the miscreants was sent to place another object on the rail before they all scattered in a flurry when a maintenance worker spotted the group and ran them off.

After a couple more checks, another of the locomotives, a yellow-lined one, trumpeted the beginning of his trek. More gradually than the previous train-former, he left the station and began building speed.

There. The moment D-16 was waiting for: loping out of the shadows came a grizzled, ancient Cybertronian.

D-16 had tracked this particular mech down after overhearing him tell a vagabond friend, huddled around a trash fire in the gutter, that he was train hopping to the sparse polity of Yuss to find work. The two wouldn’t talk to the former miner when he approached for details, suspicious of the newcomer. Instead, D-16 followed the ancient mech in the shadows.

Presently, the ancient mech kept pace with an open boxcar before launching himself through the opening. The hitchhiker quickly ducked out of sight to avoid the gaze of a maintenance worker counting train cars further down the line.

After a considerable time of rattling supply cars, the train and his unaccounted passenger slipped away from view towards Yuss.

D-16 kept his optics locked on the gathering of trains in the yard, satisfied with his new knowledge of how to train hop without risking injury or detection. At the very least, it was easier to consider the option after having seen someone else do it. 

Now, he waited for a train to take him from Tarn to Peptex.

Hadean drew higher in the sky, beating down on the gleaming metal of the planet, unhindered by the cloudless day. More Cybertronians clocked in and out of their shifts. The cargo was loaded and dispatched, pulled to their destination by a powerful locomotive transformer. When the train D-16 was waiting for appeared, he had almost fallen into recharge and had to brusquely shake himself to attention.

While the TTX line bound for Peptex was prepped and checked over, D-16 focused on steadying his breathing. His servos trembled in anticipation of what he had to do.

That familiar whistle filled the air. The great mechanical being began to press down the tracks. The wheels built up steam and propelled metric tons of metal and ore down the rails. 

D-16 braced himself, closing his optics and taking a couple breaths. His servos still shook when he darted out from the hiding spot. He picked an empty box car out of the line as he had seen the old timer do and hurried to keep up as the train accelerated. 

With a burst of speed, he came level to the opening and threw himself in. Tucking and rolling into a locked crate that dented his armor. He flailed ungracefully for a moment. 

He waited with bated breath to see if the train would be halted. If someone had seen him get on. Had called the enforcers to take him away. However, the TTX train left the station without issue and rounded a bend that led out of the more heavily populated and industrialized section of Tarn. Soon after that, they were streaking across coastal deserts.

Occasionally, D-16 would pop his helm out to gaze in awe at the vast vistas painted in reds, silvers, and blues. When Hadean began to set, the world exploded into mesmerizing hues of delicate pinks, soft oranges, and rich purples.

Cybertronian society was sharp and wretched, but beauty persisted.

Despite it all, D-16 continued to live.

Freedom was sweet. 

The train continued its course for several orns without stopping. The locked crates, D-16 found after breaking one open when a combination of curiosity and monotony became too much, were filled with cubes of processed energon. He greedily stored them into his subspace and subsisted off what energon could not fit.

The taste was rich and full. His systems perked up at the fresh taste, and he couldn’t help but slump in relief.

With his tanks full of the purest energon he ever had, he drifted off into recharge for most of the journey. Safe and satisfied. Not even the occasional bellows of the train’s whistle could disturb his slumber.

Pedes crunching on gravel, however, did. 

He scrambled up, taking in his surroundings as the steps drew nearer.

The cargo holds weren’t moving anymore, having been decoupled at the drop off point. D-16 was still in the energon supply car. Night had fallen, but the full twin moons of Lunar-1 and Lunar-2 spotlighted all of creation. Moonlight spilled through gaps in the railcar. Tracing D-16’s dark form with intangible probing fingers.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. 

The mech was getting closer.

D-16’s defense routines thrummed to life.

A smirking shadow eclipsed the pale light. 

“Look what we got ‘ere: a runaway.”

D-16 had put up a wild fight, but the slavers, through considerable effort, managed to subdue the former miner.

He was getting sick and tired of losing.

“This one should fetch a good price in the gladiator pits,” a brawny mech remarked as they shoved him into a cell on board a modified shuttle.

“They could market him as the second coming of Megatronus,” another mech joked, “Did you see the number he did on Trick Shot? Ha!”

“Shut it!” Trick Shot snarled from where he rummaged through a med kit.

The slaver’s arm hung limply at his side. Wires sparked from cracked plating. Gears could be heard grinding against each other to no avail: nothing moved. 

The sight brought a smirk to the ex-miner’s face. D-16 had thrown him into a wall of the box car and proceeded to beat the tar out of him.

Trick Shot gave his companions a poisonous glare, “I’m going up front. You two can stay in the cargo hold on guard duty.” He stormed away, followed by jeers and curses.

Wait, D-16’s thoughts finally processed the stray remark, did they say gladiator pits?

Finally, things were lining up for him. These idiots saved him from an expensive and dangerous trip to Kaon. Delivering him right where he needed to be to start consolidating power-.

“It’s a shame that once we sell the cold cargo at the Tessaurus Arena, that Sharkticon, Swindle, gets 70% of the cut to get us back into Tarn unnoticed,” the bigger of the two slavers grumbled.

“If he didn’t have his gestalt, I’d thrash him. See him talk his way out of it when he has a fist between his teeth,” the other mech seethed.

“Yeah, but he’s working for powerful mechs. On top of that, he is frustratingly good at his job.”

D-16 was too caught up on what the first mech said to give the financial woes and political machinations of Cybertron’s underworld any sympathy.

Tessaurus?! They’re selling me to the Tessaurus Arena?! Are you kidding me? They’re taking me the opposite way. No gladiator worth anything ever came out of Tessaurus! I was a top candidate for the Ludus Divinus gladiator school, the most prestigious in Kaon, and these two-bit idiots are taking me to a no-name rust spot. I’d take Polyhex over Tessaurus. Stupid, stupid, glitch-heads!

“Oh, Quackles. We’re really in it now,” D-16 muttered into his cell’s wall.

“Hey! You! Stop banging your head on the wall. You’ll get plenty of processor damage in the gladiator pits. Trust me,” the smaller slaver smiled, revealing dentae filed down to sharp points, “But if it’s a head start you want, I can help with that.”

“Your offer is noted,” D-16 narrowed his optics.

“Don’t rough up the merchandise too much, Novato,” his companion duly warned, lazily inspecting his blaster.

The former miner rolled back his shoulders and met Novato’s gaze head-on.

Before round two of D-16 versus the slavers could start, a scream shattered the air as Trick Shot barreled through the doorway and threw down a small cage. An even smaller form bounced inside with a groan.

“He bit me! That scraplet bit me!” Trick Shot thundered out. His lame arm was still limp but wasn’t bleeding as much anymore. His servo on his working arm, however, was.

Whatever sympathy Trick Shot was expecting was nowhere to be found as his companions doubled over in laughter.

“You can’t handle an itty bitty minicon? Ha!”

“I can’t breathe! Hah! My back hurts,” the smaller mech wheezed, “That minicon is a fighter. Too bad that can’t be said about you, Trick Shot.”

Before Trick Shot could pull out his blaster and challenge that claim, a rough voice came from the cage on the floor.

“Cassetticon! It’s casseticon, you afts!” The casseticon snarled.

Trick Shot had come to the end of his chain as he silently turned his helm toward the small cage. He silently stalked over. With slender, bleeding fingers, he grasped the top of the cage, almost delicately, before ferociously ramming the container into the wall and causing the cassette to cry out.

“Listen here, you poor excuse for a pet, you are whatever the pits you’re fancy, new owner in Stanix says you are!” Trick Shot snarled.

With that sentence, the irate mech viciously threw the cage to the ground again.

“If you need me, I'll be at the control bridge!”  Trick Shot stormed back out. 

His companions were silent this time in his wake.

“Primus, he’s on one today,” the larger slaver muttered.

In a voice so small that the slavers couldn’t hear him, the cassetticon, painted a vivid red and complemented with a rich black, curled into a ball and whispered, “I’m not a pet.”

D-16 observed all of this in furious silence.

Curious how Trick Shot wouldn’t so much as look at the grey mech after he had nearly ripped the slaver’s arm out, but he had no qualms battering around a cassetticon for a single bite.

After a couple groons, the larger slaver made his excuses and left the brig. Leaving Novato to lean against a wall, one finger tapping on the trigger of his blaster. Eventually, the smaller mech roused himself from a bored stupor, checked that the cages of the two occupants were locked, and left with a grumble about getting some energon.

D-16 didn’t think the slaver had left the room unguarded completely. He dearly hoped his captors weren’t that imbecilic, or he was going to face the discomforting fact that he was an absurdly easy target. But if they were a bunch of idiots who got lucky, then who was he to complain? It gave him time to test the shackles he had been covertly examining.

“What’s your name?” The cassette asked, slumped in his mini cage.

The shackles screeched as D-16 jolted at the question. He had forgotten the other mech was there.

“I don’t have one to give,” he replied in a low murmur.

“La~me.”

D-16 bristled, “It's not ‘lame.’ It’s symbolic. I haven’t found a name that fits yet, that’s all.”

“Hurry up an’ pick one, or I’ll pick one for ya. Free of charge, even!” The cassette grinned.

“I’m starting to see why Trick Shot hurt you.”

The mention of the slaver sobered up the mini terror. The red light in his visor dimmed to a mullish maroon.

“That rust bucket had it coming,” the smaller mech grumbled, folding his arms. There were traces of dried energon around his tiny neck cabling.

“I take it you didn’t learn your lesson?”

“Oh no, I learned my lesson: Next time, go for the jugular.”

D-16 laughed, startling the cassette, who stared at the other mech before smiling again.

D-16 calmed down from his bout of mirth, still occasionally chuckling, and asked, “Perhaps you can help me come up with a name. But first, what is yours?”

“Name’s Rumble, and don’t you forget it. Hehe, you’re not gonna regret this!”

He regretted it. Immediately.

“I’m not going by ‘Scourge of Tarn’! Let alone ‘Crimson Rage’. What are these? Stage names?!”

Rumble rolled his helm back dismissively, “They’re cool names, and you know it. Not my fault you can’t appreciate the artistry.”

D-16 cradled his face in his palm. Breathing cool air into his systems, he dragged his heavy servo down his face. He would not rise to the bait of a pipsqueak a fourth of his size, but he was getting close.

Something the slavers said earlier pricked the back of the silver mech’s mind, “What about Megatronus? He was the most powerful of the Thirteen, wasn’t he?”

“That idiot?” Rumble gave him an unimpressed tilt of his visor, “The chump who got tricked by the guy with the horns, killed his girlfriend, and then got demoted to Unicron’s lackey for the rest of ever? Yeah, re~al inspiring. Much awe,” he snorted.

D-16 took in another breath.

He was not going to implode on this pain in the-!

“Besides, it’s too long of a name,” Rumble flopped to the floor.

“And ‘Scourge of Tarn’ isn’t?”

The cassette waved an arm dismissively in the air, “That one has pizazz. Presence,” he started pumping both fists in the air and began a hushed chant of, “Scourge of Tarn! Scourge of Tarn!”

D-16 started inspecting his shackles again. That was more productive than this current conversation. 

Still, he couldn’t resist arguing back, “The story of Megatronus, to me, is a tragedy. To be amongst the stars, the protector of the heavens, and then slain by love’s arrow. Cast down from the light into the shadows of regret and rage.” 

“Ok, ok, ok. It’s your name, not mine. But if I were you, and I’m glad I’m not because I love being me, I’d shorten it to just ‘Megatron.’”

At that shortened glyph, D-16 couldn’t breathe.

The air had fled his systems as a thin stream of light brought clarity to his being, as though he had spent his whole life stumbling in the dark. For whatever reason, the name ‘Megatron’ resonated with his spark, and it sang. 

How else to describe it but the sweetest sound in the world? The sound of one’s name?

But Rumble suggested it, so no.

“I’ll stick with Megatronus.”

“Yer loss.”

“Your gain.”

“Gain? What am I gaining? I’m stuck in a cage,” he kicked the bars for emphasis, “Some slaggers want to sell me as a pet, and my only company is a mech that can’t understand the artistry of ‘Scourge of Tarn.’”

“They mentioned selling you in Stanix. Do they really do that there?”

“Did the hole you crawled out of not have access to a decent news outlet?”

“Yes.”

“That explains a lot.”

“Are you from Stanix?”

“Where do you think most minibots come from, huh? A crystal garden?” The cassette snapped. He lifted himself from his sprawl and glared at Megatronus, “Do us all a favor and go back to whatever hole you spawned from.”

Alright, the silver mech could admit that he deserved that.

Evidently, Rumble had faced challenges in his past and still faced them in the present. His brash attitude and insulting glyphs referenced a troubled history. Or perhaps that was just the cassette’s naturally magnetic personality shining through. 

Megatronus was reminded of First Aid describing his quarrelsome brother, Blades. But even further than that, he was reminded of his friend, RM-4. 

Megatronus didn’t know RM-4’s past. The minibot miner had arrived as an indentured servant at the mines a couple vorns after D-16 did, with a permanently covered optic. But that injury and the brunt of hard labor didn’t stop RM-4 from cracking jokes and doing stupid stuff with D-16. As for the red miner’s past, there were brief mentions of the world topside but nothing substantial. D-16 didn’t ask for details.

Could it be that RM-4 had to choose between life as a miner and being a…a…, Megatronus grimaced, unable to finish the thought. His whole being roiled with rage at the humiliation RM-4 must have endured. At the cruel treatment of one who was kind. He clenched his servos into tight fists, causing the shackles to groan under the strain. I’ll escape for you, RM-4. I’ll escape and make sure these slavers pay as you have: with their lives.

“I misspoke,” Megatronus said, “What I mean to say is that you have gained an ally: me. Together, we will escape and make these sorry excuses for mechs regret the orn they met us.”

Rumble rose from the ground, hope blooming cautiously in his visor, “How are we going to do that? I mean, I’m not worried,” he quickly asserted, “Once Boss Bot comes, these short-circuit losers are done for,” he grinned viciously. The image of this mysterious boss destroying the slavers raising his spirits.

“I’m glad you have faith in this ‘Boss Bot’, but I do not have time to wait. I am confident I can break these shackles and pry the bars open.” Megatronus strained the shackles with an ominous creak for emphasis, “However, for a better chance at escape, we need the advantage of surprise.”

Rumble leaned forward with another manic smirk, “Have you heard of ‘low-frequency’ waves?”

Novato was kicked back into the brig with a stern warning to not leave the merchandise unguarded again, or so help him, Breaker (the aptly named third member of this outfit) was going to sell the smaller mech for parts.

The smaller mech had thrown back some curses at the threat but complied with resuming his post. 

“What are the prisoners going to do? We’re thousands of feet in the air, and neither of them has flight alts,” Novato grumbled on top of a crate. One optic trained on the captives.

The prisoners were oddly quiet for the fight each respectively put up earlier. But Novato wasn’t worried. The bars were strong, and the shackles would send the mechs into stasis if they breathed in a way the slavers didn’t like. 

Still, he kept his finger trained on the trigger of his blaster.

This probably wasn’t the first time these bots had been enslaved, Novato mused. His orange optics flicked over the submissive profiles. The smaller captor was the newest member of this operation, but he was no stranger to the practice. Cybertronians born into or brought up in slavery were quiet, kept to themselves, and broken. You could always tell when someone was new because they fought and cried through the stockades and point of sale.

A distant rumble shook the metal walls. There wasn’t supposed to be any storm systems in this area but weather has always been a fickle beast. Could have easily been the engines of the shuttle as well, he reasoned to himself.

Novato let out a yawn and scratched at his faceplates. Guard duty was the worst assignment. The boredom is so overwhelming you resort to counting individual light cells peeking through the sides of the walls for the hundredth time. Each second stretched out into an hour. What he wouldn’t do to take a nap and pass the glacial time away. He couldn’t wait for when he wasn’t the newest member anymore and could throw this processor-numbing job onto someone else.

A discontent hum steadily built up in his processor. 

Breaker and Trick Shot weren’t any better than him, Novato frowned. 

Trick Shot could be downright useless at times. Take earlier that orn for example, waking up the target and nearly getting his arm torn off.

Yeah, it was Breaker and him who took down the vagabond brute. Where does Trick Shot get off not doing guard work, that worthless idiot? It should be Trick Shot down here! Not him!

Novato’s servo gripped his weapon tightly even as his optics felt heavy. On unsteady pedes, he marched towards the door. He had a couple choice glyphs he wanted to share about the running of this ship. By Primus, he was…he…

His helm drooped under a heavy, weary wave. Orange optics were captivated by the dirty ground. For a moment, the metal floor looked so inviting. He could just lay down and recharge. The prisoners weren’t going anywhere, and sleep sounded so sweet. Just a few winks of recharge. That’s all.

The smaller mech stalled in front of the cells, trying to fight off the fatigue.

But that moment was enough.

Novato screamed as he was slammed into solid bars. His blaster clattered to the ground. A freed servo the size of his helm wrapped around his face while the other servo gripped him by his collar plating. His alarmed shouts were brutally cut off as he was slammed hard enough into the bars to dent them. 

Dazed, Novato quaked under twin burning red suns. Heat bleeding off them in whip-like flames. 

A dark voice bit at his audials, “What was it that you said earlier? That the gladiator pits could advertise me as the second coming of Megatronus? Fool! I am second to none. I AM MEGATRONUS!

Novatos’ optics whited out, and his vocoder let out a burst of static as he was yet again smashed into unforgiving metal, this time by his throat.

The floor shuddered under Novato’s dead weight. A foamy line of energon dribbled past his lips.

Megatronus wrenched the bars apart with a huff, shrugging off the faint electric charge surging through the rods. Shoving aside the downed slaver with a vicious kick, he crouched down and set about freeing the cassetticon.

“That was awesome! That loser didn’t know what hit him. Thanks a million, Megs!” Rumble all but danced out of his cage, retracting low-frequency pulsars in his servos as he went to deliver his own swift kick to the fallen mech, “Not so tough now, are ya?”

“‘Megs?’” Megatronus raised an optic ridge.

“Yeah! It’s yer nickname since ya didn’t like the other one. Whaddya think?” Rumble smiled, proud of himself.

‘Megs’ was off. Discordant. It didn’t make his spark sing and spin in glee like ‘Megatron’ did.

“We’ll workshop it,” the silver mech decided.

“Why bother asking for my input if you’re just gonna shoot my suggestions down?”

“It’s helpfully litotic.”

Rumble screwed his small face into a frown at Megatronus before looking back at the downed mech.

“What are we gonna do with this chump now?”

“I have several ideas.”

Breaker didn’t expect to see Novato so soon after marching the smaller mech down to the holding cells. Nor for Novato’s unconscious body to flatten him at a million miles per hour.

“Nice shot!” Rumble laughed by Megatronus’s side.

The silver mech bit off a curse and ducked behind a wall to dodge blazing blaster fire, grabbing the cassette to move the other mech to safety. The corner where Rumble’s helm had been seconds prior was scorched black with wisps of smoke lazily drifting away in the cycled air as the melted metal smoldered.  

Breaker had recovered quicker than Megatronus had anticipated.

“Face me like a warrior, coward!” The bigger slaver snarled.

“Nah,” Rumble called back.

A litany of blasts peppered the corner again, nearly blinding Megatronus.

Sneaking a glance through the smoky haze, the silver mech saw the slaver standing in the middle of the hallway, an open target. 

Steeling himself, Megatronus whipped out of his cover and shot a few bolts of his own from the blaster he had taken from Novato before hiding once more.

The shots went wide. 

“You missed! He was standing there, clear as day, and you missed!” Rumble hissed. He covered his visor with both servos and grumbled a few choice curses. 

“What kind of shot was that!?” Breaker jeered, “Were you aiming for the wall? Ha!”

“Shut up!” Megatronus yelled, face plates flushing.

Switching his grip on the gun, he whipped the useless piece of metal through the air. It cracked into his adversary’s helm with a satisfying crunch.

“Gah!” Breaker flailed.

Megatronus charged forward, pedesteps thundering as he rammed into the bigger mech. Breaker maintained his grip on his blaster and let out a couple frantic shots close to the ex-miner’s helm. The percussion rattled Megatronus’s audials but he pushed through. He clamped a servo around the other mech’s, squeezing hard enough to break Breaker’s grip and drop the weapon. They crashed to the floor, a vicious tangle of kicking, punching, and biting.

“Yer a dead mech! A dead mech, ya hear!” The slaver spat.

Megatronus let out a deep, cold chuckle that caused his opponent to falter in his struggles.

“You speak true and yet I have never felt more alive than seeing you bleed.”

With a flash of a silver fist, Breaker’s helm dented into the floor and his body went still.

Panting, the former miner stood up slowly. Megatronus’s servos, once silver, were now dripping in blue.

“Rumble, you can come out,” The mech stalled as he turned to see a flash of black pedes disappearing up a ventilation shaft.

A cold draft blew through the corridor.

He left me.

“I was gone for two seconds! What happened here?” A dismayed voice asked behind the silver mech.

Megatronus froze. He sent a vain prayer to Primus to please, just give him one second to breathe before turning back around to face Optimus Prime.

“Hello,” the ex-miner said flatly, “So nice of you to drop in, Prime.”

Optimus looked over the two downed mechs, the scorched walls, and then back to Megatronus. He worked his jaw under his battle mask for a second. Looked back at the carnage, back at the bloodied silver mech. Mulled over what to say for another silent moment.

Megatronus just stood there under the scrutiny. He knew he looked pretty bad, smeared in internal energon and dirt. His pauldrons were blackened by stray blasts he hadn’t been able to completely dodge. And what was one to say when the last words exchanged were foul and fetid with anger?

“I suppose…” Megatronus trailed off.

“Yes?” Optimus’s optics brightened.

“You were right,” Megatronus sighed, “About this path I have chosen enslaving me.” He let out a mirthless laugh, “You see this ship? You see those mechs?” He gestured broadly, several drops of life that hadn’t dried on his servo splattered on the ground.

“This is a slave ship,” he continued, “Those mechs on the ground captured me on my way to Kaon with plans to sell me to the arenas in Tessaurus,” his servo dropped back to his side, “How did you know this would happen? Are you a prophet as well, Prime?”

“No. I’m just old.”

“And I’m too blasted foolish.”

“Inexperienced,” Optimus gently corrected, “and very angry. But we can talk more later. For now, let’s focus on getting you out of here.”

“There was another mech with me earlier. A red cassetticon called Rumble.”

The prime blinked, “Don’t you mean Frenzy?”

“Who in the pits is Frenzy?”

Optimus’s answer was cut off as a badly beaten Breaker broke through the specter with a roar.

Caught off guard, Megatronus could do little more than yell as the slaver took him down to the floor. The other mech wasted no time pinning the former miner down with an iron grip. 

Before he could throw Breaker off of him, a cold gun barrel tip pressed against his helm, making Megatronus still.

“You’re not worth keeping alive,” Breaker snarled.

The ex-miner bared his own dentae in a snarl.

Before Breaker could pull the trigger, the slaver gasped as a ghostly blue servo bloodlessly pierced through his torso, right where his spark chamber was located. The blaster tumbled out of his shaky servos and clattered to the floor. His breathing was labored, and his optics were shorting out as he stared unseeingly past Megatronus. Breaker choked and coughed up flecks of energon.

“Shoot him! Now!” Optimus ordered.

Megatronus scrambled for the blaster and took aim.

This time, he didn’t miss.

The specter pulled out his arm, leaving no trace, and the smoldering frame fell to the ground for the last time.

Optimus closed his optics, pained. But when he opened them again, they were steeled in their resolve.

“Come. We must leave. Now,” the prime urged, rousing Megatronus from his stunned stupor.

The silver mech scrambled to his pedes and forced his servos to not shake.

Leaving the corpse, the former miner and ghostly prime hurried down a different corridor.

The shuttle was bigger than Megatronus thought. Especially for a small operation run by three mechs. 

It felt as though whatever path they chose only took the escapees to dead ends. Megatronus had seen snatches of the vessel’s layout when his captors hauled him onto the craft and threw him in the holding cell, but it was luck that had him stumble across Breaker earlier.

Hope Rumble’s having better luck in the vents, Megatronus groused.

Despite being abandoned by the mini terror, the former miner did hope the cassetticon would get out safely. That this Boss Bot of his would save him as Rumble believed. 

A happier end than RM-4’s.

The vessel shook, startling Megatronus from his thoughts and causing him to stumble.

Optimus’s optics grew darker, “This vessel is being boarded.”

That’s when the alarms went off.

“We have intruders!” The intercom crackled.

“Blast,” the prime swore.

“Extreme caution! They are dangerous and-” the announcer was cut off abruptly with a scream and the distant echo of a laugh. 

Megatronus and Optimus exchanged a glance.

The intercom crackled again, and the air was filled with maniacal laughter, “Listen up, ya rust buckets: Due to a change in management, we’re gonna hafta let ya all go! So let’s end on a high note, ‘ey?”

A demented shriek tore through the air, amplified by the intercom’s speakers. Megatronus fell to one knee, servos covering his audials. He squeezed his optics closed against the sharp pain reverberating in his processor. The piercing wail escalated to a fever pitch. Megatronus could feel his plating vibrate in time with his flickering vision as he hunched into himself in a futile attempt at self-preservation. His HUD pinged warnings of his internal temperature escalating to unsafe measures. His fans clicked on and roared to life but it did little to help.

Blessedly, the transmission finally cut off with one last cackle.

With ringing audials, the silver mech unsteadily got back up. Soft wisps of smoke floated from Megatonus's plating.

Looking to the prime, his optics widened.

The specter’s form seemed to glitch in sporadic intervals. Even clipping through the wall he leaned against. Fearful static came from Optimus as he doubled over himself. In between the shuddering light of the spark ghost, cracks grew from the hole in his chest plates.

Megatronus hurried over to Optimus’s side but was waved off.

The prime propped himself up with unsteady servos. The ghost’s battle mask opened, and he turned his face away to cough up muddled pink energon. He leaned back against the wall with a groan. The glitching slowly calmed down.

“Are you ok?” Megatronus asked.

“I’ll live,” Optimus paused, “I’ll be fine. We need to be gone. As of yesterorn.”

“We can wait a moment longer for you to recover.”

“It’s nothing. Let’s move on.”

The ship rocked again from a distant boom.

The two didn’t waste any more time and legged it down the corridor. Renewing the search for an escape route.

They rounded a corner, and Megatronus immediately had to dodge to the side to avoid the flailing frame of an unknown mech, possibly another slaver, scrambling for an escape before crumbling to the floor.

A mocking laugh directed the former miner’s attention to a purple and blue cassetticon with arms transformed into drills standing amidst downed mechs. A wild grin stretched his faceplates while a visor obscured his optics.

A corridor stretched beyond the carnage to the interior of a different ship. 

“That is Rumble,” Optimus said.

“I have no idea who that is, but he’s not Rumble,” the silver mech refuted.

"Frenzy is red, and Rumble is blue."

"No, Rumble is red, and again, I don't know who Frenzy is."

"Rumble is Frenzy, and red is blue."

"That doesn't make any sense!"

“Guess I missed one, heh heh,” the mysterious cassette started his drills with a whir, that frenzied look fixed on his face as he spotted the silver mech looming by the corner.

“Hey! Hold on a second here,” Megatronus raised his servos.

The cassette continued stalking forward, “Why should I, bucket head?”

The former miner kept an optic on the sharp drills, “Are you- are you Rumble’s Boss Bot?” 

The unknown cassette froze to the spot. The grin morphed into a shocked ‘o’.

“Boss Bot? Do you think I’m the Boss Bot? Ha!” He doubled over, his small frame shaking from laughter.

“If Rumble and Frenzy are here, then Soundwave isn’t far behind,” Optimus pulled out his powered-down axe.

“Soundwave? Is he another cassette?” Megatronus whispered, the unknown mech still laughing.

“No, but he’s much more dangerous and competent.”

The cassette wiped a fake tear from his visor and activated his comm, “Hey, Rumble! I got a mech here: big, grey, and stupid. Ya know this bucket head, bro?” He smirked at Megatronus. Unafraid of being flattened by a mech that dwarfed the minicon ten times over.

Ah, they’re brothers. That explains the rising fuel pressure. But not how an avatar of Primus knows them.

The cassette, who Megatronus assumed was the ‘Frenzy’ that Optimus mentioned briefly, listened to the other end of his comm with a thoughtful frown.

“Alright,” Frenzy announced, “Yer clear fer now, Mega-dork.” 

The originality of the insult was astounding. Pure genius.

Biting his glossa was the only thing stemming the acidic remarks Megatronus wanted to unleash on this brat.

With a whoop, the rogue cassette disappeared down a maintenance vent. Leaving his victims behind.

“D-16,” Optimus murmured, “Tell me as quickly as you can how exactly you know Rumble.”

D-16, no, that wasn’t - Megatronus filled the prime in on the main points of what had occurred in the holding cells.

“Soundwave and his cassettes are formidable opponents. Highly skilled in communications and combat when they are not acting like idiots,” Optimus glanced at the downed mechs.

“How do you know them? I met Rumble ten minutes ago, and that Fenzy character just now.”

“I fought a war against them over millions of years before I died. Their faces are well known to me and my soldiers.”

“A war?! Were they the ones who…”

“No. That was someone else,” Optimus lightly touched the growing crack in his chassis.

Megatronus took in a deep vent, “When this is over, you and I are going to talk. Alright? No disappearing. No vague statements. We talk, or I am going to lose it.”

Optimus’s optics smiled mischievously, “Normally, I wouldn’t risk an encounter with them given our current circumstances,” the prime continued like he hadn’t heard the other, “But this could be fortuitous if we can use the cassettes to endear ourselves to their Boss Bot.”

Megatronus gave him an unimpressed look and viciously stomped a stirring slaver unconscious.

“It would be nice to have allies,” the silver mech begrudgingly agreed.

“We are of the same sentiment, then?”

“Make some friends?” Megatronus smirked.

“Make some friends,” the prime nodded.

The silver mech started heading back the way they came, not caring to step around the frames of the slavers. These bots had engaged in a trade that made them the scum of Cybertron. It was only fitting that they would be dust under Megatronus’s pedes in death.

“I have a good idea of where Rumble went. Or, more accurately, who he’s targeting.”

Optimus ignited his axe, “Lead the way.”

Megatronus had no idea where he was going. There was no directory posted on the walls with a ‘you are here’. His strategy was being made up as he went.

His working theory was that the cassetticons, Rumble and Frenzy, had gotten this far in life through third-party assistance (Megatronus and their ‘Boss Bot’ Soundwave), surprising sigma abilities (the low and high-frequency waves), and guerilla-style tactics. They were no lap pets. Reckless idiots who bit off more than they could chew would be a more apt description. But under Soundwave’s lead, wherever that third mech was, the one shared databyte in the mini terrors’ processors was firing off. 

Their skills were best suited for infiltration and communications. It was a waste of time and downright suicidal to take on two ships worth of mechs from the same slave ring. It was best to cut off the head. In this case, the control bridge where Trick Shot was, conveniently located for a cassette’s revenge.

Additionally, Megatronus had underestimated how many personnel were part of this specific slaver gang. He had assumed three because he had only seen three, but the true amount was evidently higher. If the ship that had bordered was another slave ship, the number of foes rose exponentially.

On top of that, he didn’t know how many mechs were part of Rumble’s rescue operation. The only confirmed member present was Frenzy. Optimus had mentioned a mech called Soundwave and Frenzy had indirectly confirmed this bot’s existence. But who knew how many there actually were…and how much Optimus wasn’t telling him.

At the moment, Megatronus was navigating his way around the ship a la echolocation: by the sound of alarmed shouts and curses. This led to the duo coming across party after party of ticked-off Cybertronians shooting at the vents.

Unlike the previous times, he had Optimus for backup, which made a huge difference.

The prime was still unable to harm a living mech with his axe. But he could wreak havoc on guns, walls, and electrical systems. He would shatter the light cells, raining glass on the  soldiers plunged into darkness before ducking and weaving with expert grace to slice blasters in half. The molten axe left a blazing ribbon of light in its wake. 

The slavers would route in the ensuing panic, allowing Megatronus to swiftly take them down. He had the advantage of mass and height as most of the captors were average in build. Even more so, First Aid had rebuilt the former miner with a titanium alloy, a metal renowned for its strength-to-weight ratio. Couple that with a righteous fury on behalf of Rumble and RM-4, and he was an unstoppable force.

However, if there was one thing Megatronus could do without, it was Optimus’s helpful ‘pointers’.

“Uppercut, now,” the Prime instructed while scoring the floor in front of some frightened slavers. Revealing a den of serpentine wires that hissed out deadly bolts of electricity.

“I don’t need your help!” Megatronus snarled as he launched a guy into the ceiling.

The mech pierced through with a sick crunch and didn’t fall back down. His legs dangled limply from the ceiling.

“Dodge,” Prime called out.

Megatronus ignored him. 

Which led to his faceplates getting busted by a different mech decking him to the ground.

“Ooh,” Optimus winced, glancing over from the pile of scorched mechs. The electricity had done its job, and the wires continued to fritz in warning to anyone stupid enough to fall into its jaws.

Megatronus snorted out a spray of energon from his dented nose and lurched back off the ground. He tackled the slaver down and returned the favor with prejudice.

“Shut up!” The former miner yelled, knocking out his opponent and the last of this group, “I’m doing fine on my own.”

“...You’re arm is out of its socket.”

The silver mech glanced down at his limply hanging arm. 

Megatronus popped it back into place with a gritted hiss, “Like I said, fine.”

Optimus muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Not even, dipstick.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing, just an Earthling colloquialism,” the prime reassured with a smile.

Megatronus was not reassured.

When they finally fought their way through to the command bridge, Megatronus was frankly relieved. His stamina was starting to flag, and his plating was hot from constant fighting. The energon that had been on his servos had ignited from stray sparks, scorching them black.

Optimus didn’t waste any time in cutting down the door, allowing the pair to rush through to see a panting Trick Shot aiming a blaster at Rumble, who lay limply on the ground. His brother, Frenzy, was too busy struggling against a different slaver to help.

“Rumble! Rumble!” Frenzy cried.

“You glitch!” Trick Shot spat, “I’ve had it with you! Die! DIE!”

Blinded with rage as he was and as petty a creature as he was, Trick Shot took his time taking potshots at the mini terror’s limbs.

Rumble sobbed and writhed from the blasts.

Megatronus didn’t know what happened. When asked about it later, he couldn’t give an answer. All he knew was that one moment he was at the door, and the next, he had taken hold of the sadistic mech and threw him with enough force to send him crashing through the bridge's main control terminal and out the hull several levels down.

Megatronus huffed out scalding steam with blazing red optics, gazing down at the mangled mech-sized hole he had created. He took no notice of the air clawing at his plating, trying to drag him down as the hull depressurized. Or of the warnings populating his HUD about ripped wires in his arms and plating crumpled from the shear force he used. He glanced over to Frenzy and the unknown slaver, both paralyzed in shock.

The ship lurched to the side, throwing its passengers off their pedes. With a mournful groan, it dipped down and plunged to meet Cybertron’s welcoming embrace. 

The other ship connected to their craft, Megatronus could see it through the bridge’s bay windows, was unable to disengage, and was dragged down to share the same fate. The bloodied fighter could make out a mech at the other ships’ control bridge, frantically typing away at a terminal.

“We’re going down! Hold on to something!” Optimus yelled.

“Warning. Warning,” An automated voice crackled over the intercom, “Massive breach detected in multiple integral sections. Major turbulence detected. Rapid depressurization detected. Warning. Warning.”

Rumbles' small body slid across the floor towards the breach, smearing a trail of energon.

Megatronus scrambled to snatch up the cassetticon and held him close.

The slaver tussling with Frenzy hurried out of the room but was stopped by a steely grip on his arm.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Megatronus growled.

“W-what?” The mech yelped.

“The ship is going down. We have to lighten the load,” With the last of his strength, the silver mech heaved the screaming, frightened mech through the hole.

Serves him right.

“Rumble!” Frenzy called out, desperately running over as the aircraft continued to lurch and roll.

The world below was racing up to meet them like an old friend.

They had mere seconds until impact.

Frenzy reached Megatronus and Rumble. He shoved the silver mech’s arm aside and clutched at his injured brother.

The shuttle violently rocked on impact. A harsh screech of metal and a fiery blaze scorched over the silver mech.

Chapter Text

Prowl took out his acid cartridges.

He loaded his rifle and used the broken metal in front of him as a tripod to keep steady. He peered through the scope with a frown. The mist in this region was making it hard to see.

“Do ya still have yer blaster?” Jazz whispered.

Prowl unsubspaced the weapon and handed it over.

“Thanks,” the saboteur magnetized the gun to his leg plating.

The two mechs were lying low on an outcropping of rubble, having tracked the sound to this general location. Drawn in by morbid curiosity.

Skitter skitter.

The detective angled his uninjured doorwing, taking in the minute shifts in the air. Something was nearby, but what? And where?

“We need a better visual but that necessitates getting closer,” Prowl whispered. “I don’t want to risk being ambushed. But we may need to take the chance so we aren’t operating blindly.”

“We’re already operatin’ blind. Especially with all this fog,” Jazz shooed away a tendril of vapor that had curled around his arm, scattering it.

The saboteur angled his own smaller door wings with a frown. Humming to himself, he stabbed his energon blade into the ground and listened closely to the pommel.

“There’s this scratchin’ sound,” Jazz relayed, “and then a ‘thunk.’ It repeats…but doesn’t move…scratch…thunk….scratch again. Repetitive but stationary.”

Prowl mulled over their options. He was operating on the ‘heebee jeebee’ feeling that Jazz-

“Alright, let’s go,” the saboteur in question started shimmying down from the ledge.

“What?!” Prowl hissed, optics wide.

Jazz paused in his shimmying, “We’re off ta confront Skittertron, yeah?”

“B-but we, I have- agh!”

“What’s the matter? The quicker we move, the less time ta contemplate the cold embrace of death.”

“Give me a sec,” Prowl huffed, “We need a plan.”

“I thought we already had one: get closer ta Skittertron. If it’s hostile then take it out, resume our oil cake walk, part as unlikely friends, and I go watch Galvatron’s Last Stand. What is left ta discuss?”

“That’s not a plan. That’s a vague hope and a dream.”

“Let me amend: hopefully we find the thing goin’ bump in the night and everythin’ works out. I dream of someday seein’ that production. Tickets are expensive with a five vorn waitin’ list.”

“I can’t believe this.”

“Me neither. They don’t even serve refreshments.”

“Not the play: This! You!” Prowl wildly gestured at Jazz, “How in the name of Primus did you pull off a heist?”

Before Jazz could reply, a scream rent the air. The occasional skitter skitter they would hear increased to a frantic tempo.

Prowl took in a sharp vent and clenched his dentae in a disgruntled snarl.

He hated making plans on the fly.

Not to mention, the detective was tired. He wanted to crawl into berth and never emerge from the darkness of his room ever again. Pits, he should be in a hospital. Not hunting an unknown spook on a single copper wire budget.

But frag it, he was a professional.

When did he start stalling like a coward?

With a curse, Prowl adjusted his tac net's parameters.

He also ignored Jazz impatiently tapping a beat.

It’s a simple predictive strategy exercise, Prowl reassured himself.

“What is the status of your comm systems?” The Praxian asked.

“Busted,” Jazz replied, “Unicron’s spawn did a real number on ‘em.”

Prowl nodded. His own comms were still down.

“We will employ a visual pivot stratagem,” the tactician arranged bits of rubble into a map, “The predicted onset locations are one klick due north of our position,” he gestured to a black rock, “We’ll need to keep a tight watch on our peripheries as we move in for a higher chance of interception. I’ll stay at position alpha with the rifle,” he placed a small metal screw on top of a grey rock, “While you scout out the area, narrowing down the position of the target. Once you collect the necessary intel, return, and report. We can plan our next move from there,” the Praxian concluded by moving a piece of glass in a serpentine maneuver around the black rock.

“So, improv?” Jazz tilted his helm to the side and waved his servos.

Prowl felt a gasket pop, “Sure. ‘Improv.’”

So the two ‘improved’ their way to position alpha.

Jazz placed Prowl down on the new outcropping. The Praxian quickly settled into a prone form with his rifle.

“No friendly fire, now, y’hear?” The saboteur joked before he slipped into the mist. Disappearing completely from view.

“This is an ill-advised endeavor,” Prowl muttered, looking through his scope to see the vaguest indications of dark shapes in the fog.

Minutes ticked by in silence, only disrupted by the occasional scratching sound. From his sensor net, he deciphered two targets in the mist: one on the move and the other stationary. He adjusted his position and lined up his crosshairs.

His frame had grown numb from his sustained position when a shriek tore through the air, startling him.

“You dare try to eat the all-mighty, Lord Starscream?!”

Dread filled Prowl at that screech.

A blast of light and cacophonic noises rocketed through the air ahead of him, blinding the tactician.

What did you do, Jazz?!

He looked through his gun’s scope to see several bolts discharge through the air. A horrid roar echoed in the tense silence that followed.

Tmp, tmp, tmp.

Jazz launched out of the thick mist, a familiar black box bursting with blue light tucked under one arm.

“The pits are real and you’re the mayor of it!” Jazz yelled at Starscream.

“What does that make you, huh? The town idiot!?” Starscream shrieked back.

Prowl swore and lined up a shot as a dark form approached in the mist.

The mechanoid shape howled and rent the air before it with ragged claws.

The detective released a steady breath and squeezed the trigger.

Bang!

The acid pellet shot past the squabbling pair to hit the target square in the chest with a sick hss.

The attack only made it give a vengeful shriek.

“Why’dja anger it further~!?” Jazz sang in a high-pitched voice as he reached Prowl, scrambling up the outcropping.

“Fool! That thing can’t be killed by the likes of you,” Starscream flitted in agitated circles, contained within a central glass extension of the black box.

The creature was getting closer and bigger. The detective could begin to make out shredded platting and loose cabling dripping a thick viscous fluid.

The Praxian quickly took aim once more.

“Ah!” Prowl was thrown over Jazz’s free pauldron.

The detective scrambled to keep his weapon in his grip as the saboteur dashed over uneven rubble fields.

“We need to ru~n,” Jazz sang through clenched dentae.

“Why are you singing?!” Prowl yelped, hastily loading another cartridge. His servos were unsteady and hindered by the bumpy ride, scattering pellets to the ground.

“Because I’m stre~ssed.”

“It wants to eat me!” Starscream wailed.

“What is ‘it’?!” The Praxian hissed.

“A real spawn of Unicron!” Jazz supplied, visor bleeding white.

With a chnk! Prowl successfully loaded his rifle and looked back up to fire into the creature chasing them.

He never fired the shot. Instead, his breath caught in his vents and his servos stilled at the gruesome sight before him.

The twisted form of a Cybertronian corpse snarled clumps of black spittle that flew from its gaping maw. Its optics blazed a feverish blue that cast deep shadows over the rest of its facial features. Cresting its helm was a broken-off chevron, spiderwebbed in fractures. Sharp claws stained black pierced the ground as the creature gave chase. Its overall form was emaciated, and starved in search of sparks to consume. Plating was missing from its arms and legs or twisted in melted curls where wires sparked loose and more of that pitch tar oozed out. Prowl’s first shot had hit true and blasted through its chest plates, melting away the armor to reveal a dark spark chamber.

A beast of eternal famine driven by an insatiable hunger.

A sparkeater.

They were all going to die.

Jazz’s pede twisted and sent them careening into the rubble.

Starscream’s prison bounced to the ground with a click, activating an internal mechanism that closed the box.

Prowl smacked into a steel bar with a groan. He kept a hold of his rifle, thoughts racing with a single directive: don’t let go, don’t let go, don’t let go.

A sharp jolt from his doorwing propelled him to lift his rifle up as a barrier against the nightmare launching at him. The sparkeater’s claws scored Prowl’s pauldrons with an audial-splitting screech. The Praxian struggled to keep the rifle up against snapping fangs, while the creature’s weight crushed him.

A roar from the sparkeater split the air and vibrated through Prowl’s helm and spark. Sick black tar splattered over his face plates with a hss.

His arms shook as he fought to keep the sparkeater away from his vitals.

A cold truth eroded at his courage: Prowl knew, that once you fall on your back in a fight, it’s over.

You lost.

A roar of thunder was all the warning the nightmare received before a race car struck the sparkeater’s side and toppled it over.

In a fluid arc, Jazz transformed back into root mode and spun midair to slam his energon blade into the creature’s servo. Pinning the gruesome corpse in place.

Dashing away from the screeching monster, Jazz picked up Prowl, the black box, and resumed sprinting.

The acid rifle clattered to the ground in the flurry of activity.

Steam wafted off the saboteur's frame, scalding Prowl. Jazz’s vents were ragged and raw.

“That building,” Prowl gasped, pointing unsteadily at a husk of a tower, “I-I see stairs. Cli-i-imb up. I have…I have a plan.”

“I’m climbin’! I’m climbin’!” Jazz shouted back, pivoting towards the building.

Clearing the ruined entryway, the saboteur skipped over missing steps with winged pedes.

The staircase groaned from the Sparkeater, finally catching up to its prey with the energon blade still impaled in its servo, launching itself up the twisted frame.

Prowl pulled out a packet of acid pellets, his last one, and tore the casing off with his dentae. The pellets spilled out and clattered down the steps from their frantic flight but the tactician was able to grab a fistful.

The creature was quickly closing the distance.

Piercing the protective casing with his thumb, the burning acid eating at his fingers, he threw the munition at the steps.

Aided by the stair’s weakened form, the acid quickly melted through the steel. Detaching from the supports, the lower case fell with a mournful wail. Taking the wrathful sparkeater with it.

The rest of the case shuddered and bucked. Jazz wrapped an arm around the swaying railing. Prowl closed his optics and fervently prayed for the structure to hold.

With a shudder, the building settled back to rest.

The sparkeater shrieked from the bottom floor.

“Can’t ya stay down fer one second, ya fragger!?” Jazz cursed.

The dark form, shrouded in the dust kicked up by the fallen stairs, began to advance up the wall remnants.

“Primus below is that thing climbin’ up here?! It’s gonna chase us ta the ends of Cybertron,” Jazz coughed on the dust.

“Do you still have the gun I gave you?”

“Lost it.”

Prowl offered an acid pellet to the saboteur, “This is the last one I have. When you see your energon blade, throw this at it.”

“Gotta make it count, huh?”

“Preferably, yes.”

The Polyhexian placed the tactician down and took the projectile. Opticking the monster clawing its way up from the pits, he schooled his face into a cool mask, fingering the acid pellet absentmindedly.

The sparkeater snapped its jaws as it ascended closer and closer.

“Jazz,” Prowl warned when the creature was close enough that he could make out the feverish white optics.

“I know what I’m doin’, doncha worry,” Jazz turned his attention back to the monster, “Come get eaten up.”

The sparkeater was a couple rungs below them. Prowl could hear its excited breaths.

“Jazz!”

With a scrap of claws, the nightmare lunged.

“JAZZ!”

The saboteur sprang forward and threw the pellet into the juncture where the energon blade impaled rusted plating.

A bright light flashed from the mixture of acid and scorching energon, taking the sparkeater’s injured servo clear off. Forced back by the blast and scrambling for purchase on the walls, the dark form tumbled back to the ground.

Recovering unnervingly quickly, it shrieked and wailed as it scratched in vain at the walls with its lame limbs.

“Guess it’s too much ta hope for it ta die,” Jazz grumbled.

“For now, it’s unable to climb. Let’s get as far up as we can. The more space between us and that thing, the better.”

They resumed climbing the stairs.

Jazz didn’t pick Prowl back up and the tactician didn’t care enough about the sea of red filling his HUD to ask for assistance.

The Praxian was only concerned with putting one stumbling pede in front of the other.

Luckily, the stairs were intact enough to lead to a roof access panel. Pulling themselves through, they swiftly closed the panel and dragged large pieces of rubble over it.

Exhausted from the chase, they sprawled out on the roof. Too tired to consume even a single drop of energon, they simply lay there.

The haunting cries of the sparkeater followed Prowl into a fitful recharge.

Skritch, skkrrrrritch…

Prowl rolled over with a groan, the light scratching waking him.

Through blurry optics, he could see dry internal energon on his pauldrons where the sparkeater had raked him.

Opening his optics fully, he looked towards the edge of the roof where the scratching had come from.

The sparkeater stared hungrily back, jaw hooked over the edge.

Prowl let out a scream and scrambled for the nearest object: Starscream’s prison. He dashed to the edge, dodging rusty, swiping claws, and bashed the helm in with the black box.

He bludgeoned the nightmarish rake repeatedly with wild terror and rage building in his spark.

The monster swiped again, nearly nicking the tactician who dodged away, huffing steam.

“Wha’s wit’ all da noise?” Jazz slurred, waking from his own slumber, “PRIMUS BELOW!” He screamed when he spotted the sparkeater, “Did he climb up here with his teeth?!”

With one last, strained yell, Prowl brought down the box with all his fervid might and knocked the jaw of the monster askew.

The sparkeater spat and hissed as it fell back down. The Praxian watched, optics wide and wild, to see a plume of dust erupt from the impact of the twisted frame.

A moment passed and the frame remained still.

Jazz joined him at the lookout point.

The dark form twitched and roared.

Prowl screamed back, pouring all his frustration and hatred into a shrill note that scraped up his vocal cords.

“DIE ALREADY!” The tactician collapsed to his knees, the threat taking all of his strength. His frame shook.

The cry echoed in the ruins of the city. Mocking and empty.

“Yeah! What he said!” Jazz chimed in after a moment of silence, “Ya ain’t so tough, Skittertron. My mech here can take ya on any ol’ orn. Let’s see ya try that again, huh. What’s that? Nothin’? That’s what I thought!” He flexed for added measure.

“What,” Prowl said when the Polyhexian added in a couple choice wing flicks and hand gestures, “are you doing?”

“Psychological warfare. Works every time.”

Prowl shook his helm with a weak laugh.

“Do ya think if I toss a shanix over the side, the impact will kill the jerk?” Jazz peered over the edge.

“Like off the Imperial Tower in Iacon?”

“Yeah, just like that. Problem is… I’m broke,” he flashed a smile, “Mind spottin’ me some cash?”

“Are you serious?”

“Serious as the grave, mech.”

“Unfortunately, I’m not in the habit of carrying money on my person.”

“Really? Slag. Two grown mechs without a single cred between ‘em,” Jazz plopped down beside the tactician, “Shakin’ my helm.”

Prowl only saw it because he was looking for it, but under the saboteur’s veneer of indifference, his plating shook. The sudden reappearance of the sparkeater rattled Jazz as much as it did the Praxian.

Showing weakness in front of an enemy was a tactical error. Exposing chinks in the armor that could be exploited in a spray of energon.

Worry writhed in the back of the tactician’s processor. Primus knows Prowl had shown plenty of weakness to Jazz: needing to be patched up, carried, saved from a monster straight out of the pits, his mounting frustration at their situation, not to mention this latest outburst. For the most part, the other mech had been chipper and helpful in their odyssey through Praxus’s undercity. But that could change rapidly. Allowing the saboteur to rip into the wounds that Prowl had foolishly shown to the cyberhound.

But Jazz had shown weakness to Prowl. Had, with little to no prompting, born his back of scars for the enforcer to see again and again. If the Praxian wished to indulge in some dramatics, Jazz had also born his soul to him: shared his music with Prowl.

And not too long after, the musician had tried to kill him.

The ever mercurial nature of Jazz vexed Prowl.

Still, the question persisted: why would Jazz trust a stranger with bits and pieces of a matter that lay so close to his vagabond spark?

Could it be, Prowl frowned, perhaps…we aren’t strangers?

According to his memory banks, the first time he had met Jazz was at that cafe. But his processor is not the most reliable. There are entire swaths of memory files corrupted beyond recovery. He had even hallucinated a glitch-.

Prowls optics widened, The glitch!

Perhaps that is why that ghost of a conscience looked so similar to Jazz! Because Prowl had met Jazz before. The identical speech patterns, disregard for authority, wounds sustained in battle or rather by a functionalist regime! The pieces were lining up.

But, wait, Prowl frowned, the Dead End riots occurred before the quelling of this neighborhood they now took refuge in the rubble of. Perhaps Prowl’s memory was not the most reliable, but there were no substantial opportunities where they would have crossed paths before that cafe. Jazz had freely spoken of traveling as far as the southern coasts. However, Prowl had remained stationary in Praxus. Furthermore, the city-states of Nova Cronum, Nyon, and Rodion, as well as the desolate Lithium Planes separated Praxus and Polyhex. Praxus was never asked to help with the turmoil in the other city-state. It would have been more shame than the functionalist usurps in Polyhex could bear to ask a polity like Praxus for help. No, they went to Iacon for that honor, Prowl distantly remembers. Or did he not remember that correctly as well? Like how his map isn’t lining up with this forsaken place?

Prowl worked his jaw.

If he could not rely on his own mind, perhaps he could rely on another’s.

“Have we…,” the tactician faltered, “Have we met before? Before that orn in the cafe, I mean.”

Jazz cocked his head, “No? I would remember someone like ya if I had.”

So much for that.

“But,” the musician added, drumming his fingers, “I can’t explain why, but ya feel like someone I can trust. Crazy, ain’t it?”

Prowl cleared his throat and spat out some processed energon to the side.

Jazz grimaced, “You’re really goin’ through it, mech.”

“Let’s focus on reassessing our situation. How many cubes of energon do you have left?” The tactician didn’t need to check his HUD to know he was dangerously low. His shaking limbs were proof enough.

The other mech’s mouth thinned, “Five.”

“We’ve been down here for,” Prowl checked his internal chronometer, “an orn.”

“Really? ‘Cause my chronometer says two.”

“Another broken thing to add to the list,” he cursed, “How about medical supplies?”

Jazz pulled out the kit and a cube of energon, “Low,” the Polyhexian held the cube out to the injured mech, “Ya cracked open the welds on yer arm.”

Prowl glanced down at the ruptured plating. “Oh, I guess I did.”

With a small huff, Jazz pressed the cube into the least injured servo, “Fuel up, mech. I’ll reweld the patches.”

The tactician faithfully fueled while the other mech inspected the aggravated injury.

Prowl’s fuel gauge ticked to half-full while he enabled his power-save protocols. His engine rumbled as gears shifted to compensate for the change from ‘sports mode’ to ‘economic.’

The enforcer had been treating this as a race to get out alive. But with the obstacles that had been thrown at the pair, it was becoming more of a grudge match with the powers that be to endure and outlast.

“Factoring injuries, low supplies, and unknown threats,” Prowl murmured, distantly aware of the mangled roars of the still alive sparkeater, “Our chances of getting out of here are-.”

“What does it matter?” Jazz interrupted, still studying the rupture.

“What?”

“What does it matter what the odds are? Whether they’re high or low? In our favor or not? We’re gonna get outta here. Don’t worry about the odds and chances. Focus on how we’ll get out,” with a set jaw, Jazz started prying off the broken weld.

“Either way, while we are out of Skittertron’s reach,” Prowl noticed Jazz smiling at the tactician’s use of the epithet, “We can rest atop this tower.”

The saboteur smacked a servo over his mouth and smothered a laugh.

“What do you find so amusing?”

“It’s just, snrk , yer, uh wordin’ reminded me of those old stories.”

“Yes?”

“Y’know: a noble trapped in a high tower, guarded by a Predacon. Saved by a knight in shinin’ armor,” Jazz grinned.

“I want a new knight,” Prowl instantly demanded.

“Where are ya gonna find ‘nother knight? I’m the best ya got.”

“I’m my own knight. I can save myself.”

“Mhmm.”

“You, in this scenario, are trapped in a high place somewhere and need me to help get you down.”

“Of course.”

“Because I can save myself.”

“Yep.”

“I can.”

“I know.”

“…I’m going to punch you.”

“Ya already have.”

“Hard.”

“Uh-hu- Ow! What was that for!” Jazz rubbed at his smarting cheek.

“For being a little slagger!”

“Ok, I may have deserved that a little.”

“A little?!”

Prowl gave Jazz a long look that the Polyhexian cheerfully ignored as he rummaged through the med kit.

“Stop distracting me.”

“Never.”

“Anyways!” Prowl snapped, “The fact remains that we are stuck up here while a sparkeater waits to eat us below. And we have been reunited with that thing,” he pointed at the dented black box.

“It was hilarious watchin’ Skittertron try ta break it open an’ eat ‘im,” Jazz laughed.

“I have a theory about this ‘Starscream’.”

“Is it better than the Spawn of Unicron theory?”

“It is more plausible.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“The spark could be that of a mech who has been ‘dead’ for eons. You nicknamed those blue crystals earlier ‘spirit crystals.’ But Praxians used to believe that those crystals were spark remnants. The old tales stipulate that a spark’s energy, upon deactivation, would scatter and crystals would grow from where it landed. People even maintain collections of spirit crystals to keep a piece of a departed loved one near.

“Eventually, it was replaced with the more in-vogue doctrine that we go back to the well of all sparks and are ‘one’ again with Primus when we die. Nonetheless, it’s still common to see Praxians cultivating crystals in private collections or ‘shrines’.

“In addition to that, the company you stole Starscream from, Copperport, is a mining company. Correct?”

“Yep.”

“With the recent flight groundings and limitations on space travel due to isolationist policies from the council’s office, certain materials have grown scarce even with the allowance of some asteroid mining. Leading to an increase in shadow crews working in restricted zones and corporate espionage to get an edge over the competition.

“Copperport may have dug too deep and found this curious specimen. Sending it to their regional office for the higher-ups to have as a trophy or to conduct more research on.

“If we knew where exactly they found him, that would give us more insight into his history. He most likely took part in one of Cybertron’s wars in the past.”

“He did screech out a rap sheet. What was it again? ‘Lord of the Firmament?’ Someone so’s lieutenant? Hey!” Jazz snapped his fingers, “He said he was a Winglord of Vos! He’s a Vosnian seeker!”

“I’ve never heard of a Winglord Starscream. If he was committed to his duties, historians may not have had much to say about him. But I doubt he was ever content to go quietly into the night.”

“We could ask him and play dumb. See what story he wants ta spin an’ what he wants ta hide.”

“My thoughts as well. I wouldn’t take him lightly, however. He comes off as vain and immature with his insults and self-aggrandizing, but to survive the violent times of Cybertron’s past, you needed to be willing to stray from a strict code of warfare into deception and betrayal. And, it seems, these troubled times of the present as well.”

“He can also blast us offline.”

“That too.”

Jazz tapped his chin thoughtfully, “Something bothers me about his rap sheet. He said he was some mech’s second in command. As a supposed Winglord of Vos, I doubt he would willingly become second to anyone. Most Vosnians I’ve met like to believe they’re Primus’s gift to Cybertron. Too special to walk the same ground as us ‘ground pounders.’” His mouth twisted into a sardonic smile, “Not to mention, their current Winglord is a supporter of the caste system because it keeps him on top and everyone else below him. Makes me wonder who's powerful enough to keep a Winglord under his thumb? And if Starscream can survive as a fragment, what other warmongers survived as well?”

“It takes a terrifying individual to keep a Vosnian subservient. Let us hope his master has gone back to the well.”

“Hope? That’s uncharacteristically optimistic of ya, Prowl,” Jazz teased.

“This is the first I’ve ever heard of, let alone seen for myself, a mech’s spark continuing on after the frame has deactivated without outside assistance,” Prowl defended himself, “The chances are exceptionally low for it to occur again.”

“But never zero,” the musician chirped, “With what ya said, I think he might’ve been an upstart, y’know? Probably allied himself with a more powerful figure to take over and instate himself as the big mech of Vos. But seriously, we could just ask the guy.”

“You are correct.”

Despite this consensus of opinion, neither mech moved to open the box. Getting blasted was still fresh in their processors.

“Well,” said Jazz, “if he says anythin’ we don’t like, we can always throw him to the sparkeater.”

“An effective reason we can leverage over him to make him cooperate.”

Again, neither moved.

Jazz started whistling.

“I’ll open it up,” Prowl groused.

Jazz beamed at him.

After careful inspection, Prowl found the panel that allowed the box to show the subject but not release the spark.

(Prowl was never going to put himself through getting electrocuted to such a degree ever. Again . And he had only gotten nicked! What if the spark lightning had been square on?!)

With a sharp click, the tower was bathed in blue light.

Before Jazz or Prowl could so much as utter a glyph, Starscream started hurling insults.

“You blasted autodorks! Poor excuses for mechs! I was nearly eaten and you had the nerve, the gall, the audacity to shut me away. How long were you planning on keeping me in there, huh? Huh!? Me! Lord Starscream! The pinnacle of flight-!”

The box was slammed shut.

Starscream was less, er, explosive the second time they opened the glassview.

“I will drink your energon and use your own helms as cups,” the spark spat.

Jazz whistled, “Brutal.”

We’re off to another terrible start, Prowl sighed to himself.

The tactician was rarely the interviewer of suspects. He created plans and took crooks down. Interrogation was best left to mechs with ‘charisma,’ like Barricade. Key to gaining timely, invaluable intel was developing a good rapport with the subject. A friendly face to extract invaluable data was preferred.

However, Starscream already hated them. So that’s a non-starter.

There was also the matter of him being a disembodied spark: body language was non-existent. The best poker face one could ask for was to have no face at all. Just a shiny, blue crystal composed of energy and spite. Thankfully, Starscream could speak and was unguarded in his utter disdain for the other two mechs.

Additionally, although they could threaten the errant overlord, they couldn’t torture him. Torture was the worst way to get intel. The prisoner would say anything to get the torture to stop. Even make up lies that would sell out their friends and comrades. Whatever it is that the torturer wanted to hear: regardless if it was truth or fiction.

“What is your name?” Prowl began with one of the more standard questions.

“Don’t tell me you think I’m Skywarp.”

“This is just for the official record.”

“What record? We’re on a rooftop.”

“Fine. Personal record,” Prowl forced out through gritted dentae.

“It’s me, you fool! Starscream! Lord of the firmament!” Starscream then proceeded to rattle off another score of titles, “Winglord of Vos. Second in command of the Decepticons. The aerial scourge of Autobots. Vindicator of the skies. Head of the elite trine,” he preened.

“Could you clarify what you mean by ‘autobots’?”

Starscream’s voice dripped with derision, “Hopeless fools that cling to their prime like mechlings. You persistent pests.”

Jazz leaned an arm against Prowl’s less injured shoulder, “Uh huh, yeah, sure Sparkyell-”

“It is Starscream!”

“-but no, I’m a street musician-”

“And a thief,” Prowl interjected

Jazz continued on, ignoring both Prowl and Starscream, “-and this mech’s an enforcer. Not sure where ya got ‘autobot’ from.”

The spark was silent for a moment, “...Did I fry your circuits or are you naturally this dense? Honestly, the more I’m forced to be in your combined presence, the more I wonder how Optimus was able to keep you all alive.”

Prowl bit his cheek in contemplation. He didn’t want to risk going on a tangent and losing control of the conversation but finally, he decided to take the gamble.

“Who’s Optimus?” The tactician asked.

Jazz nodded beside him.

The pause from Starscream was longer this time, “......Did I actually fry your circuits? You are wondering who Optimus Prime is? A constant helmache and your leader, Optimus Prime? You don’t know who that is?”

Prowl and Jazz shared a baffled glance.

“Optimus Prime is no longer the current leader,” the Praxian hedged.

“Ha! Please, leave the lying to the professionals next time. Next, you’ll be saying you don’t know what a Decepticon is.”

There was a heavy pause.

“Is that… an insult to use on dishonest mechs?” Jazz asked

“Insult?!”

“So, you are Starscream?” Prowl tried to steer the conversation back on track.

“Yes!” The spark exploded, “Yes, yes, yes! How many times must I spell it out for you buffoons? For the love of all that is left standing on Cybertron, get it through your thick heads! I. AM. STARSCREAM!!! ”

“Yer sure?” Jazz asked with a grin.

Starscream went supernova.

They had to close the box again.

“What are you doing?” Prowl hissed.

“What do ya mean?” Jazz asked.

“Between the two of us, you have the charisma and cool-headedness to pull off an interrogation, yet you are intentionally agitating the subject.”

“I can’t help it. It’s hilarious ta watch him explode,” he chuckled, “Serves him right fer attackin’ us earlier. Besides, I doubt he has anythin’ of worth ta offer that would aid us in the present.”

“If he is an ancient warmonger, then I disagree. The past informs the present. Our current society and even our present situation did not come from spontaneous generation.”

“No, it came from ya tacklin’ me from the air like a maniac.”

Prowl twitched, “If you hadn’t run then I wouldn’t have had to tackle you ‘like a maniac.’”

“But if I hadn’t run, you would have arrested me, held me in custody fer the rest of the night, and made me miss my shuttle outta here.”

“ I caught you! No matter what, I would have arrested you and you would have still missed your shuttle.”

“Says you.”

“Of course says I! I have a tac net that sorts through every possible route to choose the optimized scenario for- oh, you slagger.”

Jazz grinned innocently, “Yes?”

“I know what you’re doing.”

“Really?” The grin grew.

“By purposefully inciting contention with the subject, you are banking on the chance that they will reveal valuable intel in their irrational anger.”

“Starscream already wants ta kill us,” Jazz explained, pulling out several metallic pieces from his subspace and fiddling with them, “Actin’ buddy-buddy with him ain’t gonna do any favors. Befriendin’ him will take more effort than just tickin’ him off.”

“And what, pray tell, have you learned from this gamble?”

“Let’s see: Starscream is second in command of the, heh, ‘Decepticons.’ They’re fightin’ the Autobot forces led by Optimus Prime.” Jazz faltered a little under Prowl’s unimpressed stare, “Which, admittedly, we could have figured out without kickin’ the scraplet nest.”

Said ‘scraplet nest’ shook violently from its captive’s apoplectic rage.

“And,” the musician continued, “he thinks we’re one of the Autobots. Which, last I checked, I wasn’t. Well, kinda?”

“What do you mean?”

“I hear that organic species in the galaxy at large call Cybertronians ‘Autobots’. It’s short fer ‘autonomous robots,’ y’see. These Autobots that Starscream’s referrin’ to probably won who knows how long ago, and so the moniker survives as slang to this orn.”

“Hmmm,” Prowl frowned as he tapped his fingers in thought.

Jazz cocked his head, “What’s wrong? Seems ta me we have this all figured out: Starscream’s a sore loser who is too angry ta die so now we’re stuck with him because you fell on me from the sky. Not much else to it…Unless we want to go the Spawn of Unicron route! Ooo, there’s some opportunities for a story there.” He eagerly rubbed his servos together.

The tactician opticked Jazz in silence for a long moment while the saboteur went on about some concept involving black holes.

Jazz is trying to sabotage this interrogation, Prowl thought. No, he has sabotaged it and will continue to do so until I give up. What is he afraid Starscream will reveal? He should know as much as I about this living ghost: nothing. He was surprised when the box opened the first time. But he saved Starscream from Skittertron. Then he made the suggestion to throw him back to the sparkeater. Is he intentionally being contradictory to force me to lose sight of his motive?

“There’s no brotherhood in the face of destruction, right?” The Praxian murmured slowly.

Jazz, having gotten used to Prowl’s non-sequiturs, neatly switched to the new topic, “Look around ya: World’s damaged,” he shrugged, pulling out more odds and ends to fiddle with.

The Praxian’s sharp eyes lingered over the edge of the tower, to the grey waves of rubble. Broken up by the blue lights of the spirit crystals and cries of the sparkeater.

He pulled his optics away from the grim sight to the black box that had calmed down and sat silently a few feet away.

The logical thing was to sacrifice the spark to the monster below. While Starscream was devoured, Prowl could make his escape. He owed nothing to the spark that threatened to kill him. 

It was only one life. 

It was the tactical thing to do. Prowl knew this. Had known it ever since Jazz, Starscream, and the sparkeater came out of the mist. If it came down to survival, someone had to be thrown overboard.

But he couldn’t do it.

Walking through a dead land, a rot that had hidden under his pedes this whole time, made the thought unbearable.

He couldn’t abandon Starscream.

Covertly, he glanced at the musician.

Neither could he abandon Jazz.

“I’m going to talk to Starscream again,” Prowl announced.

He had been riding this train wreck so far, he might as well make the best of this situation and try to reassert control.

“Don’t even bother, mech,” Jazz advised lazily.

The Praxian picked up the box and tapped the glass view release panel.

Like always, the area was filled with blue light.

“Don’t even bother,” Starscream snarled.

Prowl’s optic twitched. Jazz guffawed in the background.

“I apologize for my cohort’s previous behavior. We just need to ask a couple more questions, ok?” The Praxian bowed his helm in slight apology.

The spark floated silently in the glass encasement. Giving Prowl the feeling he was being scrutinized.

“Now then,” the tactician tried to smile, “where are you from?”

“Are you kidding me!” Starscream exploded once more, “I don’t know what sick games you Autobots are playing’ but this incompetence is ridiculous!”

“I am serious,” Prowl clenched his dentae.

“Seriously stupid. I may not know what brand of psychological warfare you are using but it won’t work on me, you buffoon!”

Ten minutes passed in this fashion: the Praxian would ask a standard procedure question and Starscream would reply with colorful threats and insults.

Eventually, Jazz took pity and, setting down his contraption, meandered over to the pair.

“Prowl, ya gotta apply a delicate touch. Here, let me show ya,” the Polyhexian offered his servo.

The enforcer slowly handed the box to Jazz.

“Thanks,” the saboteur flashed a smile.

Jazz started to shake the box with both servos at full force.

“I’ll destroy you for this!” Starscream yelled.

“Listen here you little-!”

“Alright! That’s enough!” Prowl cut in, swiping the container away.

“I softened him up fer ya.” The saboteur settled into a casual stance and smiled again.

“You softened nothing!” The spark railed against his cage.

The tactician struggled to not vent out a hot burst of steam.

Maybe it’s not a complex motive that drives Jazz, Prowl thought, Maybe he just lives whim to whim. Fuelled by spite.

“You,” The tactician pointed at Jazz, “Go back to whatever you were doing while I continue speaking with the suspect.”

“I seriously don’t know what ya expect ta get outta him but knock yerself out,” Jazz held his servos up in surrender.

“It pains me to say this, but he has a point,” Starscream admitted, “What do you want? You have asked nothing about troop movements, supply lines, or even about access codes. Nothing but insipid questions about basic information. What is your angle?”

The tactician didn’t say anything for a moment. He stood there, quietly.

“My angle,” Prowl began, his voice steely, “is to get out of here. Will you or will you not cooperate in this objective?”

Starscreamed laughed. A shrill, grating sound that echoed in the dark.

“And why would I help you?” He sneered, “When I can wait for you to die and rot. ”

Before the Praxian could respond, a deep blaaaang filled the air. He jolted around to see Jazz victoriously holding the shovel guitar in one servo while the other triumphantly held up a pick. A line snaked out from the shovel’s blade and connected to the musician’s systems. Amplifying and adding reverb to music blasted out of exterior, transformed speakers.

Prowl and Starscream watched in stunned silence as Jazz, with a single string, rocked out on the shovel guitar.

The musician strummed quick and forceful strokes with one servo while the other fluttered and jumped along the shovel’s handle. He banged his helm in time to the improvised beat and started to hop around on his pedes. Twisting around and kicking the air as the tempo picked up in speed. Every once in a while, he would quickly play a beat, alter it through his programs, and set it to play on loop through his speakers alongside a new riff. Shifting pitches down for a bass line or teasing a cadence before jumping back into the fury of sound.

The music was harsh with a deep whine. Full of grit and grunge. As dirtied, rotted, and rusted as the shovel it came from.

The electrifying sound thrummed through Prowl’s chest. Inviting his spark to dance in unison with the rebellious notes.

Sliding his finger along the string in a single fluid motion, Jazz held out a high note, letting it ring through the air. Letting go of his improvised instrument, he threw his helm back with the most genuine smile Prowl had ever seen from the thief.

“Can ya dig it?!” Jazz yelled breathlessly to his stunned audience.

Prowl and Starscream were too shocked to say anything.

Even Skittertron was silent.

“I figured the tune out, Prowl,” the musician lifted the shovel on his shoulder. Satisfied with himself.

Starscream broke the silence, “Of course, it’s Jazz who thinks he can save the world with a tune. The mech who couldn’t save his own city of Polyhex.”

Jazz’s smile froze in place, “I’m throwing him off the ledge.”

The saboteur dropped his shovel guitar and lunged for the black box in Prowl’s stupefied hold. Racing to the edge of the tower, he lifted the box high above his helm and prepared to throw.

Prowl broke from his trance and scrambled after Jazz, “Wait! No! I understand, but-!”

“Put me down! Please, I beg of you: Don’t feed me to the sparkeater!” Starscream wailed.

“Too late fer that, pal.” Jazz snarled.

“I can be of use to you! Please, I don’t wanna diiieeeee,” the spark sniveled as he frantically flitted about his cage in frenzied circles.

“Oh, ya better be of use,” Jazz breathed threateningly, “Another insult from ya, and yer done fer. I swear it by ‘all that’s left standing on Cybertron.’”

“Fine, fine. You made your point. Now put me down!”

Prowl finally wrangled the box away from the Polyhexian’s firm hold.

Jazz shrugged under the Praxian’s gaze, “Just makin’ a deal.”

The captive continued to flit around his prison in a fervid spiral.

“Ok,” Prowl began, “Let’s all calm down for a second and focus on neutralizing the sparkeater and getting away from here. I think we can all agree on that. Right?”

“Of course right,” Jazz agreed cheerfully, “Wouldn’t you say so, ‘Screamer?”

Starscream hissed.

That was the closest thing to a yes they were going to get from him.

Prowl pointed down to where they could see Skittertron was, well, prowling around the base of the structure. Occasionally scratching at the steel skeleton lamely with its remaining claws and letting out vicious snarls and roars.

The tactician would be a fool to think that the sparkeater was no longer a threat just because he broke its lower jaw.

“That thing has no intention of leaving us alone. If there is any thought beyond hunger in its processor, it would have hidden itself away earlier to lull us into a false sense of security and then ambush us. But this area is so flattened and destroyed, that it can’t sufficiently hide. So it stalks the perimeter and waits,” said the Praxian. “Furthermore, we are low on supplies and weapons. My acid rifle is long gone, Jazz lost his energon blade and my blaster,” here he gave the mech a small glare due to how much paperwork he would need to do to log the missing weapon, “and I have no more acid pellets.”

“I still have an extra energon blade,” said Jazz, “But I’d rather not get close and personal with Skittertron.”

“I agree. It is too risky to chance a confrontation of that kind,” Prowl stroked his chin in thought.

“This is all well and good,” Starscream interrupted, “But we are overlooking a crucial matter here.”

“And what would that be?” asked the tactician.

“Leadership.”

“What?” Prowl asked softly.

“I declare that I, Starscream, shall henceforth be the leader! Follow me and I shall lead you to victory!” The new leader pulsed in his prison.

“Are you joking!?” Prowl thundered, finally reaching his limit with the spark dictator.

“I didn’t vote for you,” Jazz quipped.

“This isn’t a democracy. Besides, I am obviously the most qualified candidate to lead this crack team of commandos,” Starscream gloated from the small, black box. The spark seemed to swell up in anticipation of a lengthy, self-aggrandizing speech.

Prowl interrupted before their new leader could speak on his embellished elegance, “Fine, be the leader. Whatever gets you on board and out of the way.”

“We can always mutiny if he gets too annoying. I’m sure Skittertron hasn’t eaten in vorns,” Jazz added, ignoring Starscream’s indignant squawk of “Traitors!”

“As I was saying,” Prowl began.

“Wait just a second!” Starscream shrieked.

“What. Is it. Now ?” Prowl glared.

“As leader, I will be the one deciding on our course of action. While you were busy prattling on about things of no consequence, I have already devised a cunning stratagem to free us.”

Prowl’s entire frame violently twitched.

“Enlighten us, O’ mighty one,” Jazz’s voice was as dry as a desert.

“That’s more like it,” Starscream glowed in puffed-up pride, “The plan is to crush this Spawn of Unicron under our pede once and for all. To send him back to the scrap heap where he belongs.”

Prowl and Jazz glanced at each other. They will be sharing many more of these looks in the near future.

“And what does that entail, exactly?” the tactician asked.

“We’re going to crush the sparkeater with a rock, you fool!”

“Ah. Of course. It’s so obvious.”

“Are you being sarcastic with me, your superior?”

Prowl bit his cheek and kept his wings still. A lifetime in the enforcers prepared him well for dealing with megalomaniac bosses.

“Are ya thinkin’ of using the rubble bits here on the roof? That would definitely work better than a shanix cred.” Jazz pointed at the sizable chunks of debris they had moved to bar the roof access point.

“Oh, yeah, those. Forgot they were up here. Sure, that works. Use them,” Starscream answered.

“Where were you planning on getting a boulder from, then?!” Prowl yelled.

“If it’s not obvious to you, then that’s all the more reason why I am the leader and you are not.”

“Let’s get moving, Prowl, before we murder him,” Jazz stretched his arms, “Obviously Starscream can’t move the stuff so it’ll be up to us. We’ll just leave ‘Screamer here fer now,” he took the box from Prowl’s grasp and placed it precariously close to the edge.

“Hey! What do you think you're doing? I demand you move me away at once!” Starscream ordered as his prison tittered dangerously back and forth, but Jazz had already started walking away with a whistle.

Prowl joined the saboteur shortly in moving their new sources of ammunition.

“Let’s move the rocks to the south ledge,” the Praxian grunted, straining his bruised leg struts to move a chunk of debris with Jazz’s help. “I’ve observed our target’s movement matrix and we have a higher chance of nailing him there.”

“Sounds good ta me.”

“Hey, Jazz,” Prowl spoke in a hushed whisper, glancing over his shoulder to where the spark was fighting for his life by ramming the box as best he could from the inside to get as far away from the edge as possible, “Are you sure you have never met Starscream before the events of the past couple of orns? He knows your name and I don’t remember ever giving it to him.”

“What messes with me isn’t so much that he knows my name, but that he knows where I’m from,” Jazz whispered back, “I swear ta ya, I have never met this mech before. Ugh, what’s with all these strangers thinkin’ they know me? Makes my platin’ crawl. No offense, Prowl,” He grumbled softly, pulling hard at the rock to get it the last few inches to where they needed it.

“None taken?”

There was a sharp curse from Starscream, now safe from falling, before their self-appointed leader called out to them in a rushed, ingratiating tone, “Oh, Autobots! If you release me, I can blast the doomed fool into subatomic particles. Removing all this need for strut-breaking labor.”

Jazz and Prowl shared a look.

“Ya know what,” the saboteur cocked his hip and folded his arms in a mock thinking pose, “I reckon we should move a second, bigger rock. Just in case, ya know? In fact, let’s put one at each cardinal point. There’s no such thing as bein’ overprepared, right?”

“Agreed. It would improve our odds significantly. No plan survives the enemy, after all,” Prowl nodded.

“Dolts! I command you to release me!” Starscream’s commands fell on deaf audials as the two mechs stubbornly lugged bigger and heavier projectiles to each point.

It was rather crude, as far as plans went, but it was the best option they had.

“Sweet, now we have our pick of the lot.” Jazz said when they completed their task.

“We have one chance. Maybe a second,” Prowl reminded him, massaging his sore arm joint.

“If you released me, you wouldn’t need to chance anything,” Starscream grumbled.

“We’re just followin’ yer orders, ‘Screamer,” The saboteur smiled wide while his visor darkened.

His voice is friendly, but his visor screams murder, the Praxian noted.

“Let us commence with the plan,” Prowl instructed before Starscream could get another word in.

“Sweet freedom, here we come,” Jazz eagerly rubbed his servos together.

The antics made Prowl faintly smile.

BANG!

The two mechs whipped their heads around, looking for the source of the sudden noise. Jazz instinctively whipped out his energon blade from a hidden compartment in his arm plating.

“They nailed him! Right in the helm,” Starscream exclaimed.

Jazz and Prowl rushed over to the ledge they left the spark at to see Skittertron laid out on the ground. From their vantage point, they could see a splatter where half of its helm remained. It began to heave itself up.

Bang! Bang!

The body jolted with each consecutive hit as the sound of gunfire popping off echoed in the dead land. The mystery sniper, wherever he was located, didn’t wait for the body to cool as more gunshots tore through the downed monster. The sparkeater’s remaining claws swiped through the air as it writhed. Another shot sliced through and took the servo off.

“This is our chance!” Starscream spun around, “Quickly! While that accursed creature is down, crush him! Make him regret the day he tried to eat me, Lord Starscream!”

“This feels a bit overkill,” Jazz grunted, shoving his shoulder against the debris they had placed nearby.

“Good, I don’t want Skittertron coming back,” Prowl huffed as gunfire continued to ring out.

With a gravelly crunch, the melted mix of rocks and steel beam supports tipped over the edge and fell.

As the improvised weapon built up kinetic energy in its freefall, Prowl had the thought that this sparkeater, as terrible a creature as it was, would become another victim of his in this sublevel.

CRASH! With a great clatter, the debris entombed the nightmare. Ending its reign of terror in the deep dark of Cybertron.

Jazz ducked behind the ledge and pulled the Praxian down with him.

“As indebted as I am to the mystery mech that shot ‘im, I don’t want ta be next,” The Polyhexian said.

“So you leave me to be shot instead,” Starscream snapped.

“Yer our lookout.”

“Hmph! At least I’m a better lookout than Rumble.”

“Oh yeah, so much better, the best,” Jazz reassured, “Do ya see who shot Skittertron?”

Starscream was quiet for a minute as he scanned the horizon, “…it’s a dastardly villain!” he finally exclaimed, “Honestly, we should hide until he leaves, or, better yet, sneak away and not look back. Let’s go!”

Prowl and Jazz opticked each other before moving to peak over the side.

“Why have me as a lookout if you’re not even going to listen to me?!” The Vosnian sputtered.

Down below, about 800 kliks across the rubble fields, where a few straggling structures stood as inky blips, a black and red dot steadily picked its way towards them.

Prowl had no idea how a vital unit of energy like Starscream could see, but the Vosnian must have incredibly sharp sight to make the mech out from so far away.

More incredible still is that if this speck of a mech was their savior, to take down a moving target from so far away with pinpoint accuracy was Sigma abilities level. The scope on Prowl’s rifle only allowed him to shoot from 500 - 600 kliks away with high accuracy if he was prone. There was also the effect that the rotation of Cybertron had on long-range shooting. The marksman would have to account for the lateral and longitudinal drift of the bullet from such a great distance. He may shoot straight, but the bullet will veer left or right depending on which hemisphere of the planet he is in. Compounding this, due to the curvature of Cybertron, his line of sight would have a target a foot lower than it actually is. Another factor to consider is bullet drop: the vertical distance a bullet will drop between the spot it is fired from and its target due to gravity.

Being able to achieve a kill shot in these circumstances is nigh impossible without extensive training and advanced ballistic calculator programs.

Whipping his helm around, his optics were ready to bulge out of their sockets as Prowl noted how dim it actually was down here and the thickness of the everpresent mist. Even more factors that would affect a single shot, let alone consecutive ones.

What kind of god-like ability does this mechanism have? The tactician was helpless to wonder.

The mystery mech was less than a couple minutes away from their tower. Prowl could begin to make out details like light grey doorwings.

A fellow Praxian then? Maybe they could bond over shared kinship and work together to get out? Or not. Prowl’s been beaten up by a fair amount of Praxians in his functioning. Chief of them being Smokescreen.

“If he proves to be a threat, we can squish him too,” Jazz said, twirling his blade between his fingers.

“No! We must get away, post haste,” Starscream hissed, “or hide. Now! Before it’s too late.”

“Hello!” A young voice cut through as a black and red mech reached the base of the tower and enthusiastically waved, “How are you?”

“Agh! He’s seen us. Don’t reply.”

“We chill!” Jazz called back, “Yerself?”

“Good!”

“Cool shot ya made! Saved us!”

The mech below beamed at the praise, “Glad to help!”

“Would you stop talking to the enemy?” Starscream asked.

“Oh, can it, ‘Screamer.” Jazz shot back.

“What’s your name?” Prowl called out this time.

“Bluestreak! Yours?”

“Prowl!”

“Nice to meet you, Prowl!”

“Likewise!”

“Are you going to come down? Or are we going to keep yelling at each other? Oh! Do you want me to come up?”

“No, no, we’ll come to you!” Prowl replied before sinking back down and looking to his companions, “How are we going to get down? The stairs were destroyed and I don’t fancy jumping. My auto repair system just finished fixing most of my leg struts.”

“Feast yer optics, mech,” Jazz grinned.

With a flourish, transformation sequences in his servo separated in an intricate dance and reassembled into a grappling hook.

“Yeah, yeah, the grappling hook servo. We’ve all seen it,” Starscream commented dryly.

“That…solves things,” Prowl admitted.

“Hold on ta yer afts!” The sabouter whooped.

“Wha-?”

In quick succession, the Polyhexian kicked Starscream off the ledge, wrapped an arm around Prowl’s torso, secured his grappling hook, and leaped off with a laugh.

The air whooshed past the Praxian’s face, making his optics water. He could feel his loose plating rattle. The ground rushed up to meet them.

Prowl didn’t flinch nor did he scream, but he did hike his one working wing higher and higher in a desperate bid to slow their descent.

Jazz let out another wild laugh and hiked up his door wings as well.

While they were still descending rapidly, they were pulled back towards the tower’s crumbling walls. Jazz braced his legs and shot off again upon contact with a rusted beam. He repeated bounding head first down the steep slope, nearly running along the tower's face. The intervals between jumps grew smaller and smaller in correspondence with their decreasing air height until they gently hopped the last stretch to the ground.

Flicking his arm, the saboteur unhooked his grapple, aided by transformation sequences. The hook sailed down with the ringing of metal on metal until it neatly collapsed back into a fully functioning, black servo.

With a neat turn, Jazz held out both servos and caught the screaming box.

“Thank you, thank you,” he bowed.

The newcomer clapped excitedly.

“You-! You-!” Starscream sputtered, as close to speechless as Prowl had seen in their brief acquaintance.

“Me,” Jazz jutted out his chin with a smirk.

“How dare you?!”

“With mojo.”

“What’s mojo?”

“It’s like swag,” the Polyhexian shrugged, “but coolah.”

Starscream was on the edge of going berserk again. Prowl could feel the heat of his rage. He didn’t know how Jazz wasn’t melting from the intensity of it.

The Polyhexian tapped the panel to close the box. The black prison erupted into violent shaking.

“You guys are hilarious!” Bluestreak clapped again, laughing, “I’m confused about the talking lamp, to be honest.”

Now that they were finally on the same level, Prowl took in their savior’s full appearance and was startled by how young he was.

Bluestreak, despite the name, was primarily black and grey, with accents of red. A red chevron arched out from his helm’s crest and light grey door wings happily flicked around with no reservation. Communicating to all just how delightful he found Jazz. This was one tell that informed Prowl of Bluestreak’s youth. Older Praxians were more reserved with what they expressed, even the friendlier ones. They also had cleaner wing flicks and arcs. Prowl internally winced as a flick-swivel meant for ‘amusement, delight, informal approval’ was mangled into something near unintelligible: slang.

And the optics. The bright blue optics. Open, kind, innocent. Prowl’s own were often concealed in shadow, making others uneasy. Repeated long nights with little recharge had also made his optics fritz and burn his orbicularis oculi plating, making it appear like dark bags underlined them. The other Praxian's were lighter, friendlier. Able to keep up with the strain.

What took Prowl aback the most was the fact that he and Bluestreak shared the same sporty, high-performance frame model specs. Underneath the blazing paint job, each fender, spoiler, and fixture was the same with room for minimal discrepancies caused by wear. Even Smokescreen, his brother, did not match Prowl as strongly as this unknown mech.

Yet, despite his youthfulness, he had taken down a sparkeater with pinpoint accuracy.

Prowl blinked, “Is that my rifle?” He pointed at the gun slung over Bluestreak’s shoulder.

“Oh, maybe!” The sniper slung the rifle off his back, “See, when that earthquake hit I was out doing deliveries because I’m picking up shifts to pay for a new hoverboard because they just came out with the latest version that hopefully won’t explode this time. Because that kinda sucked. And I didn’t get a warranty so I couldn’t get a refund. Because of that I was out doing late-night deliveries and got caught in the ‘quake. Oh, did you guys fall down here from that last tremor too? ‘Cause like, it had to have been the biggest one yet. I swear, the ground was there one moment and gone the next! It’s uh…a bit creepy down here, not gonna lie. Kinda felt like a character in a horror movie. You know, the one that’s shown at the start to set up the monster before the main characters are introduced? Not fun.”

Jazz put an arm around the kid’s shoulders “No kiddin’? So? The gun?”

“Oh yeah! So I was wandering around down here in this uhm, lovely place, when I came across this rifle on the ground and a bunch of ammunition! I couldn’t believe it! So I started picking it all up because there are some very concerning noises down here and I thought I saw a corpse move but that was probably my imagination, haha. Anyway, I started gathering the stuff up because I thought it was like those levels in a hologram where they give you a bunch of weapons before the final boss fight. And I choose life. Every time. I started hiking away when I heard this shattering scream coming from here! Like a star exploding.”

Jazz and Prowl glanced at each other.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“That is an accurate summary of the incident.”

Bluestreak continued, “I quickly looked through the scope and I saw this really spooky character stalking this tower and you guys. I thought to myself, ‘I gotta help these guys!’ I found a good spot, lined up my shot, and blam!” He held up his servos in the imitation of crosshairs and mimed pulling the trigger. He flinched back from the imaginary kickback, “Got him right in the kisser.”

“The kisser and everywhere else too,” the Polyhexian noted, glancing at Skittertron’s tomb.

“Well yeah, he didn’t go down on the first one. Or the second. Or the third. It was…” the sniper’s voice dropped to a hush as he rubbed the back of his helm, his brow furrowing, “It was freaky. But now it’s over! And I’m not alone anymore! Woo!”

The innocent enthusiasm and trust towards two strangers was nearly blinding.

“So, to recap, that’s Prowl’s gun?” Jazz asked.

“Ah yeah, sorry. Here, you can have it back,” Bluestreak offered up the rifle.

Prowl shook his head, “No, you can keep it for now. Until we get back to the surface.”

“Thanks!” The younger Praxian slung the weapon onto his back. He bounced excitedly on his pedes, “What do we do now? I haven’t found a way out yet. Just more ghost town and ghost crystals.”

“We’re heading to a minor highway that connects to the surface, east of here. But we should make camp for the night to allow for auto repair systems to do more work before we risk another encounter.”

“Yeah, you guys look like death warmed over,” Bluestreak chirped.

“We look awesome,” Jazz muttered, his plating covered in dirt and cuts.

“Ah! I can’t believe I forgot to ask. Forgive me, but what’s your name? And your angry talking lamp’s name?”

“My name’s Jazz and the angry lamp is Starscream,” Jazz started corralling him eastward, “And I got a feelin’ we’re goin’ to get along fine.”

Prowl trailed behind the two. Swiveling his helm this way and that, alert for any more monsters of this Cybertronian-made underworld.